To Get Across this Universe
by HereBeHobbits
Summary: Ten/Rose Mental Hospital AU: Dr. John McCrimmon is a new patient at Torchwood Psychiatric Hospital who has spent years pushing everyone away. Rose Tyler joins the staff as an orderly hoping to make a difference, and she believes she can save everyone, even the lonely doctor.
1. Patience

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am not making any money from this story.**

 **As promised, my second Doctor Who AU. Warnings will apply for depression-related angst.**

* * *

 _"There's a lot of things you need to get across this universe. Warp drive, wormhole refractors… You know the thing you need most of all? You need a hand to hold." – Doctor Who S2E14, Fear Her_

* * *

Doctor Martha Jones was a morning person, as long as she had her daily cup of strong black coffee. Even the watery, sour stuff they had in the staff lounge at Torchwood Psychiatric Hospital. But as long as she had that extra burst of caffeine, she felt like she could conquer anything, even a meeting with a new (and purportedly difficult) patient first thing at 9:45. A quick glance at his file revealed his name and title, _Dr._ _John McCrimmon_ , and that he was thirty-two years old. A quick glance at the man himself revealed him to be a rather skinny fellow with a shock of unkempt brown hair on his head and the beginnings of a scruffy beard. He was also quite tall, judging by the way his long limbs were thrown carelessly about on the old sofa in her office.

She sat down in a chair across from him. "Hello, Doctor McCrimmon."

"John," he said woodenly.

"John," she smiled. "How are you?"

"I'm in a mental hospital against my will," John said, a bit belligerently.

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Your intake form says you freely consented to being here."

John's gaze wandered to the window. "I believe my cousin filled that out for me."

"You signed it."

He shrugged.

She waited. He neither elaborated nor protested further, so she decided to continue. "Why did she fill it out then?"

He gave a rather haughty sniff. "I believe she thinks I am depressed."

"Why does she think that?"

John, slumped low on the sofa, still managed to look down his nose at her. "You're the doctor," he said sullenly.

"So are you," Martha countered.

Another sniff. "Of history. Doesn't count."

Well the surly doctor was certainly living up to expectations. _That's fine,_ she told herself. She could handle it. "Why history?" she said.

Another shrug. "I like it. I've also got one in astrophysics."

"Really?"

John's head snapped over and he narrowed his eyes. "Yes, really, Doctor… Jones, is it? I've got two doctorates in two different fields, which I'm guessing is at least one more than you have, which also means that I am quite clever, and if you think you can continue interrogating me in this oblique manner you're very much mistaken."

Martha blinked, abruptly and completely disarmed for a few seconds. "Um. Okay, John. What would you like to tell me, then?"

John graced her with a brief smirk at his victory. "I'm not depressed. Donna has no idea what she's talking about."

Martha raised her eyebrows again and glanced at his intake form and notes from his initial examination. "Well, according to her… you hadn't left your flat for close to three weeks before your admission, you lost your job–"

"My publisher dropped me," John snarled. "'S different."

"Sure," Martha conceded. "But besides that, you're underweight by nearly a stone, you spend most of the day in bed but sleep less than four hours per night…"

"All classic symptoms of major depressive disorder," John said shortly. "I'm sure I come straight out of a page of the DSM-IV. A regular textbook case."

"But you don't think you're depressed?" Martha said.

John glowered. "What does it matter? My meddling cousin has already taken the liberty of shoving me safely out of her life into the _loony bin_ and I can tell you're already over halfway to officially diagnosing me yourself so who cares what I think."

Martha took a deep breath. "I'm sure you realize, John, that it _does_ matter what you think. Your attitude towards your situation matters, and it will affect your recovery."

John scoffed, " _Recovery_."

Martha pursed her lips. "And I'm sure your cousin is not 'shoving you out of her life.' I think she cares about you a lot. And I'm sure this situation pains her just as it pains you."

John actually looked rather contrite at that. He reddened and looked at the floor. "Maybe."

Martha leaned forward slightly and said softly, "John, even if it was your cousin who checked you in, as clever as you are you must have an idea as to why she did that."

"She does't know anything about it," John muttered.

"Anything about what?" Martha prodded.

"Things. That happened." He was beginning to curl in on himself a little. If he'd been cagey before, Martha could tell he'd be doubly so now. She got the feeling this session was about to come to a close.

"What things?" she asked anyway.

"Just things," he said softly, distantly. He had curled completely in on himself, and was sitting sideways on the sofa, hugging his knees to his chest. For the first time he wasn't ill-tempered or rude. Clearly she was getting warmer. But she also doubted he'd let her in today. "It doesn't matter. They're in the past. I've dealt with them."

"And how have you done that? Dealt with them?" Martha asked.

"I've moved on. They're in the past." John said. He was not looking at her, just staring straight ahead.

"Then why are you here?" Martha said.

John's face pinched slightly, his first show of emotion in the entire session. "I'd like to go back to my room, please. Are we done? Can we be done? I think I'd like to go…"

Martha felt her heart lurch at the sudden and complete change. All of a sudden he sounded very young. Very young and frightened. "Yes," she said. "You may go. An orderly will bring you lunch in a few hours. Please try and eat it all."

John nodded vaguely and stood. He left the room as if in a daze and Martha sat back and bit her pencil. This was going to be tough.

* * *

Rose Tyler was not a morning person, coffee or no. But she liked her new job at Torchwood Psychiatric. Of course, her mother had objected initially.

"You know that's where they keep the _crazy_ people, dear, are you sure it's safe?"

"I don't think we're supposed to call them that anymore, Mum," Rose said, eyeing her new white scrubs in the mirror. She thought they actually looked quite smart.

"Well what are they, then? It's a _psychiatric_ hospital, Rose."

"I dunno, Mum, maybe they're just… having trouble, that's all."

Jackie Tyler huffed. "What kind of trouble do they have to be in to get put in there? There's a _gate_ around the outside for God's sake."

Rose rolled her eyes. "Whatever, I'm sure it's perfectly safe. It pays much better than Henrick's anyway."

"Well they'd have to, wouldn't they."

She might've continued in her abuse of the mentally ill but Rose said, "I've got to go if I'm going to catch my bus. I'll see you tonight."

"All right, dear. Be sure to text when you're on your way back. And remember pick up satsumas at Tesco's, they're on offer this week."

"Yes, Mum." Rose kissed her mother and ran down to the bus stop.

A week into the job, even after discovering the staff changing room, she still proudly wore her scrubs on the bus. She liked her work at the hospital, it was the first time she'd been truly proud of anything. After finally finishing her A-levels at the embarrassing age of twenty-eight, she'd felt it was time to move on from being a shop girl, try her hand at something else. She'd heard through an old primary school friend that you didn't need any sort of degree to be an orderly, and sometimes they even trained you on the job.

"Martha says they're hiring where she works," Mickey had said when she'd visited him at the auto body shop during a lunch break from Henrick's.

"Where's that?" Rose popped a chip in her mouth.

"Torchwood Psychiatric. It's on the bus line."

Rose nodded. She'd seen it before. Great brick building with a gate around it.

Mickey smiled. "She's a _doctor_ there."

Rose laughed. "Are you ever going to ask her out, then? She gave you her number didn't she?"

"Yeah." Mickey shrugged. "I dunno… I mean, she's really smart, she's a psychiatrist. All I did was fix her car."

"But you had a lovely conversation with her, yeah?" Rose said. "I'm sure that won't matter. Besides, you're a brilliant mechanic."

Mickey flushed, took his hands out of the car and wiped them on a rag. "Sure, it's just… I dunno. Kind of intimidating, I guess. Can't really believe she'd go for a bloke like me."

"Maybe I'll see her there, put in a good word for you," said Rose.

"You mean you'll actually apply for the job?"

"Sure, why not? It could be fun."

Mickey gave her a strange look. "I didn't know you were that serious… Rose, it's a mental hospital. There could be some real nutters in there."

"Makes life exciting," Rose said lightly.

"Um… okay."

* * *

Her mother and Mickey may not understand, but Rose actually found working at Torchwood quite rewarding. It was a low-level job– most of her peers, like herself, had not attended university and she found herself at the bottom of a hierarchy below nurses, therapists, and doctors, but she didn't mind. She was perfectly content to deliver meals, change bedding, and and help out the nurses, it gave her plenty of opportunities to interact with the patients, which quickly became her favorite part of her job.

She loved meeting them and talking to them. She liked to learn about their lives outside the hospital, about their work and families. They seemed to like talking to her as well, for the most part. She hoped she could brighten their days a little bit, distract them from doctor's visits and therapy sessions and counseling.

Her favorite patient so far was Amelia Pond, a Scottish woman around her own age diagnosed with schizophrenia as a teenager. She'd made a habit of going off her meds, and after her latest psychotic outburst her aunt arranged a three-month stay, hoping her niece would be able to settle into a routine.

"Hello, Amy," Rose greeted the tall redhead when she brought her breakfast. Amy wasn't always completely lucid, but Rose said hello every day anyway. She wondered if today would be a good day or a bad day.

Amy was sitting on her bed staring at the wall. "The Doctor didn't come today," she said.

A bad day. Rose placed Amy's tray on the small desk in the corner. "Is that so."

"He didn't come yesterday, either," Amy said. "I miss him. He always says he'll come back soon, but I haven't heard him in three days."

"Why don't you have some breakfast?" Rose said. It looked like oatmeal today. "I have your medication as well."

Amy jerked away. "No. I don't like those rubbish pills. I can't hear him when I take them."

"But you must take them, Amy, if you want to get better."

" _Better_ ," Amy muttered. "Better, sweater, letter, fetter. _Fettered_. My mind feels _fettered_ Rose, the medication holds it _down_. Brown, clown, frown, drown. Last night I dreamed I drowned, Rose. Or fell. Or maybe I fell. Rose, is Rory here today?" Rory was her favorite nurse.

"I think he's working on the fourth floor right now," Rose said. She sat in a chair across from Amy and held out a little cup of pills. "Why don't you take your medicine."

"Rubbish," Amy muttered again. "Sluggish, publish, punish. I don't _like_ the medication, Rory. Rose. I can't _hear_."

Rose sighed. "Please, Amy. It's okay. It's to help you." She stood up.

Amy narrowed her eyes and leaned away.

Rose tensed. Amy had lashed out physically before to avoid taking her medication, and Rose had to help a nurse restrain her. Amy was crying by the end of it and Rose didn't want to have to do that again. "Come on, Amy," she said softly.

Amy looked at her askance, but slowly reached out and took the plastic cup. Rose handed her water as well and watched closely as Amy swallowed the pills, trying to make sure that she was actually swallowing them, and not just pretending.

Amy grimaced and Rose took back the cup. "It mutes my thoughts, Rory. Rose. It mutes my thoughts."

"I'm sorry," Rose said sincerely. She hated this part.

"The only water in the forest is the river," Amy said suddenly. She looked up. "Rose, what does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"The only water in the forest is the river. It sounds like a poem. Or a riddle. I'd like to write that down." She looked over at her typewriter, next to the breakfast tray on the desk.

"Yes, go ahead." Rose replaced the chair at the desk and moved out of the way. "I have to go now, Amy. Will you come out to the common area today?"

"Perhaps." Amy moved her antique typewriter in front of her and began tapping the keys. "The only water in the forest is the river," she muttered. "The only water in the forest is the river."

Rose left Amy's room, closing the door behind her. She always came to Amy's room last on her breakfast round so she'd have more time to talk, but on bad days it was hard to talk to Amy, and then Rose had nothing to distract her from the pain in Amy's voice as she took the cart back to the kitchen.


	2. Bananas are Good

Amy did come out to the sitting room eventually, and Rory was able to coax her into the patient dining room for lunch. This meant Rose's last stop during her lunch delivery was not Amy's room, but a new patient admitted the day before, and apparently a troublemaker.

The head nurse Sarah Jane warned her, "Prepare yourself, he's already made one of the nurses cry."

Rose hesitated. "If I might ask, why is he here?"

"Suspected depression. Although I believe Doctor Jones confirmed that after her interview with him this morning." Sarah Jane sighed. "If you ask me he's just bitter and angry, and perhaps a bit scared. He probably doesn't mean any harm."

Rose nodded. She could handle a little foul temper. It wouldn't be pleasant, but she was just delivering lunch.

"Oh," Sarah Jane stopped her on her way out. "He's underweight as well, so stay and make sure he eats something."

"Right. Of course." Perhaps it was just going to be an unpleasant lunch.

* * *

 _Then again,_ she thought standing outside his door. _I don't work here for pleasant lunches._ She took a breath for courage, then gave a perfunctory knock and entered the room with a friendly, "Good afternoon, Doctor McCrimmon."

She was promptly corrected. "It's John."

"John, then," she said. "Good afternoon." He was lying on his bed, on top of the covers and flat on his back, eyes closed and so still she might have thought him sleeping had he not just spoken.

"Do they pay you to be chipper?" he said without opening his eyes and with a hint of a sneer.

Without thinking, Rose said, "Do they pay you to be sullen?"

"As I'm sure you know, I'm here because I'm supposed to be _depressed_. It's practically my job to be sullen."

"Well that doesn't mean you have to be rude," Rose said, wondering if she was doing the right thing by engaging him. She moved on before he could say anything else. "I've brought your lunch, you must be hungry."

"No." He said shortly. He cracked one eye and looked at her, still standing in the room holding the lunch tray. "You may go."

Rose pursed her lips. "Actually, they _do_ pay me to stay here until you eat." She set the tray down on the small desk and pulled the chair around so she could sit facing John.

John huffed. "Do they?"

"They do."

John opened both his eyes at that, then jerked upright and stood so swiftly she might've missed it if she blinked. She realized he was tall, nearly two meters, and quite thin. His hospital-issue clothes were clearly chosen to accommodate his height, but hung rather loosely off his shoulders and hips. The combined effect was that he appeared to have been stretched, like Mike Teevee in _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ , Rose thought. The image was completed with pale, hollow cheeks and slightly sunken eyes.

Even so, he towered over her, and for a moment he looked quite terrifying. Rose gulped and hoped he didn't notice.

He inspected the tray of food on the table. "Chicken sandwich, yogurt, almonds, bean salad, and what I can only assume is a protein shake." He sniffed. "They want me to gain weight."

"You need it," said Rose.

He cocked his head, didn't deny it. "Why are you working here?"

Rose met his eyes. "I like it. I like helping people."

John narrowed his eyes. "You think the people here can be helped?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Do you think I can be helped?"

"Of course."

He waved his hand dismissively. "You're young. You think everyone can be helped."

Rose frowned. "And how old are you, then?"

"Old enough."

Rose eyed him critically for a minute. "Adjusting for sleep deprivation, malnourishment, and general poor health, I'd say you couldn't be more than 34, making you a mere six years older than me, max." She wondered again if she was doing the right thing by engaging the irritable doctor, but she couldn't seem to help it.

John pressed his lips together. "How long have you been here?"

"Ten days."

He had the decency to look impressed.

"I learn fast," she said. "How'd I do?"

"32," John muttered.

"It must be the malnourishment." She gave the tray a little nudge. "Eat."

John looked suspiciously at the food. He hesitantly picked up the protein shake. "What flavor is this?"

"Strawberry. It's standard, but if you have a preference I'll be happy to tell the kitchen staff. You can have it in any flavor you like in the future."

John took a tentative sip. "I like banana," he murmured. "Banana is good."

Rose made a mental note of that, but strawberry didn't seem to be too bad either. John finished the entire thing, then started on the almonds, to Rose's surprise.

"So are you supposed to sit there and watch me eat my entire meal?" he said.

"Will you finish it if I leave?" Rose said.

She expected him to lie, but he shrugged and said, "Doubtful."

"Why not?"

"No reason to."

"You're not hungry?"

"I'm not much of anything these days," he murmured. "I suppose that's why I'm here."

For the first time he looked more sad than angry, and had begun picking at the almonds rather than eating them.

Rose frowned. He seemed more inclined to eat when provoked. On an impulse, she reached over him and stole a few almonds from under his fingers.

John looked up a her with a look halfway between shocked and irritated. "A-Are you even allowed to do that?" he said.

Rose shrugged. "I just did." She popped the nuts into her mouth and threw him a playful grin. She reached for the dish again, and received a smack on the hand.

"Stop it."

She smiled and made another grab for them.

He pulled the dish out of her reach. "Stop. It."

Rose stood up and advanced toward him, arm outstretched.

Unwilling to lose the contest, John promptly tipped the entire dish into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before he noticed Rose smiling at him with her tongue in her teeth, and realized what she'd done.

"You'd better be careful or I'm going to start on your beans," she said.

John could only blink at her in shock, and didn't resist as she moved the chair and gently guided him into sitting in front of the food. In the end he finished the bean salad, but only took a few bites of the sandwich and wouldn't touch the yogurt. Rose considered it a win anyway.

* * *

Sarah Jane caught up with Rose in the staff lounge later that afternoon. "So how was he?" she asked over sour hospital coffee.

Rose shrugged. "He was fine."

"Really? Was he rude to you at all?"

"A bit. But you were right, he doesn't mean any harm."

"You got him to eat, then?"

Rose hesitated. "Yes, I did, but–"

"But what?"

"I think– I think I had to trick him into it," she mumbled.

Sarah Jane raised her eyebrows. "How did you accomplish that?"

"Well, he only drank the protein shake after I… provoked him a bit. So when he lost interest in the almonds, I kind of… stole some of them. I was just teasing, though. I was trying to get a reaction."

"Did you?" Sarah Jane's voice betrayed none of what she thought of Rose's actions.

"I think so," Rose said. "I mean, he did eat a good portion of his meal. I'm just not sure…"

"What is it?" Sarah Jane sounded concerned, motherly, someone Rose could confide in.

"I'm just not sure it was the right thing to do," she said. "If it was a good idea to provoke him. I mean, he seems emotionally… raw."

Sarah Jane thought for a minute, stirring her coffee in silence. "But did he eat?" she said.

"Y-yes, he did. More than I thought he would," Rose said.

"Then I'd say you did a good job," Sarah Jane said.

"You think so?"

"Yes." Sarah Jane met Rose's eyes. "Your job as an orderly is to provide physical care to the patients, or make sure they do as much for themselves. Your job was to make sure he ate, and he did. As to his emotional state… I think his case will be difficult. Yes, he is depressed, but on top of that he's angry and guarded and not a little bit stubborn."

Rose looked at her trainers. She felt Sarah Jane's hand on her shoulder.

"But we are all doing what we can to help him, Rose, just like we do for all the patients."

"I know." She paused. "Sarah Jane, do you believe everyone here can be helped?"

Sarah Jane didn't say anything for a while, just stared down at her coffee.

Rose shifted her weight. Perhaps this was the wrong thing to ask.

Finally, she said, "Rose, you haven't been here long. I've worked here for over fifteen years. And there are days when it's hard to convince yourself that you can do any good. But if I'm going to come in tomorrow and continue to do what I love, I have to believe that I can help people, and that I can make a difference. So yes, I believe everyone here can be helped." She stopped and gave Rose a long look. "And if you're going to survive here, you would do well to find a way to believe that as well."


	3. Relatively Speaking

"So John, how did you sleep last night?" Martha said.

"Fine." He was spread out on the sofa again and staring past her out the window.

"Did you sleep at all?"

He shrugged.

"How was your breakfast?"

Another shrug.

"Did you eat any of it?"

"Wasn't hungry."

"What about dinner last night?"

"I don't like salmon."

Martha valiantly resisted the urge to groan in frustration. "John, you want to get out of here, yeah?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Right, well I can't release you until I've treated you mentally, and I can't treat your mental health if I have to worry about your physical health. So will you please make an effort, even a small one, to take care of yourself?"

John glowered out the window.

"When was the last time you ate anything substantial?" Martha said.

"I had lunch yesterday," he said promptly.

"Did you like it?"

He was quite for a minute. "Do you know Rose?" he asked suddenly.

"Who?"

"Rose. The orderly. I don't know her last name, her name tag only said Rose."

Martha shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't know any of the orderlies."

He looked at his hands and didn't say anything. He seemed disappointed.

"But I could ask about her," Martha offered. "What do you want to know?"

He didn't answer her, continued staring at his lap.

Something occurred to Martha, and she almost smiled. "Is she the one who brought you lunch yesterday?"

Silence.

"If you want, she can bring you meals in the future."

"All of them?" he mumbled so quietly Martha almost missed it.

"Well, yes, if you want her to. If you'll actually eat."

He nodded jerkily, still looking down.

"Wonderful. That's settled then. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me today, then?" She looked closely at him, wondering if today he would talk about this 'thing' in his past.

He shook his head.

 _Damn_. Well, if not her, maybe he would talk to someone else. "John, I'm assigning you to one of our therapists, Clara Oswald."

He looked up. "I thought you were my therapist."

"I'm your psychiatrist, I make diagnoses and prescribe medications. Not that you can't talk to me– you can, but I can't hold these long sessions with you every day. Dr. Oswald is one of our best psychologists, a lot of patients feel very comfortable with her. Perhaps you'll be able to discuss things with her that you are ."

He regarded her suspiciously.

"Just try it," Martha said. "Your first session with her will be in two days. In the meantime, try and find a routine here. Get to know some of the other patients. Socialize a bit. Eat regularly. Get some rest."

He nodded vaguely at her, and began staring off into space again.

"Oh, and remember your cousin Donna is coming today. You'll have a visiting room to yourselves on the first floor."

That got his attention. His jaw clenched and he frowned.

"I know you're angry with her, but remember that you're here because she _cares_ about you, John."

"Right," he scoffed. "She cares."

"She does," Martha said. "Please try to be civil, okay?"

"Sure," he said. "Definitely. We're done here, right? I think we're done." He got up and left without another word.

Martha put her head in her hands, already dreading the call she was going to get this afternoon.

* * *

"I brought you lunch," said Donna. She pushed a paper bag across the table.

John didn't move. He slouched in his seat, glowering at her with his arms crossed.

"It's from your favorite place back home."

"I'm not hungry."

Donna took a deep breath. "John."

"Donna."

Donna made a fist under the table. "Okay. So. How are you doing?"

"How do you think I'm doing?"

"John, don't–"

"Don't _what_ , Donna?"

"Don't do this! I don't want to fight."

"Donna! You put me in a _mental hospital_! So I'm sorry if I'm not exactly inclined to be cordial."

"John…" Donna clenched her jaw.

John knew he should probably stop, but the next thing he knew he was throwing the lunch she'd brought across the room. "No! Donna, no, stop it! Stop acting like everything is fine! Everything is most definitely not fine!" He stood up and barely heard the clang of the chair falling behind him.

Donna stood up just as fast and leaned over the table, meeting him halfway. "Of course it's not fine, John! For Pete's sake you're in a mental hospital!"

"Which is entirely your doing!"

"You hadn't left your flat in weeks! You cut yourself off! You ran away from us, just like you always do– you shut yourself in your flat, you don't sleep, you don't eat, you don't work, you don't text or call or anything– just leave us, your _family_ to– to worry ourselves sick about you. I don't know what you're doing, if you're still _alive_! I mean, you're depressed, what if you'd– what if–"

"DONNA!"

"What?"

"You always do this! Stick your nose exactly where it doesn't belong and where it's not wanted! You had no right to check me in here, pretending like you know what's best for me. You always think you know what's best for everyone, you're always interfering where no one wants you!"

"Okay, okay, John, stop it, you don't mean that." Donna reached for his hand and tried to stay calm.

John pulled it away. "Don't tell me what I do and don't mean!" They were practically screaming now.

"Well stop pushing me away! You're fucked up, John, completely and totally fucked up and you won't admit it or talk about it or let anyone help you."

" _I'm_ fucked up? Donna, you're a middle-aged temp who still lives with her mother and got left at the altar and hasn't had the guts to make a decent attempt at a relationship since so you're just as sad and lonely as I am but for some reason you think it's okay to barge into my life and decide for me that _I_ need professional help so you can distract yourself from your own miserable existence–"

"OKAY!" Donna cut him off, but didn't continue. She stood there, staring at him across the table. Her bottom lip was trembling and her eyes were shining.

They stood in silence for a minute, panting at each other across the room.

He'd hit her where he knew it would hurt the most, and it worked. Part of him wanted to break down in tears as well and apologize and ask for forgiveness, but a larger part of him was still so angry he could practically see red and all he wanted to do was scream and throw things until he was too tired to feel anything anymore.

"John," Donna finally said, her voice quiet and unsteady. "I don't know what's happened, but this isn't you. The John I grew up with is not angry or cruel or secretive. I don't regret bringing you here, John, and I can only hope you won't ruin the last chance you have at a happy life."

She turned away quickly and nearly ran from the room, but not before John saw the tears beginning to fall from her eyes. He clenched his hands into fists at his side so he couldn't feel them trembling.

* * *

Like she thought it would, Martha's office phone rang promptly at 12:30.

"Yes?"

"Donna Noble, Dr. McCrimmon's cousin, would like to speak with you," the receptionist said. "Right away, if that's okay."

Martha closed her eyes and counted to a quick ten. "Yes, that's fine. Send her up."

Donna arrived with red eyes and smeared makeup. Martha gestured to a chair in front of her desk and immediately tried to apologize. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Noble, sometimes it can take a while for patients to adjust to–"

"It's fine," Donna interrupted. "I know John can be… difficult. That's not your fault. It's just–" she took a shaky breath. "He didn't _used_ to be like this, you know? I mean, we grew up together and he was _normal_ , you know? I mean, he was a bloody genius of course, skipped a form in secondary school, so I suppose he was a little weird and isolated, but he had friends, and he had me. He was… balanced. He was going to have a good life, a good, happy life."

"What happened?" Martha said softly, leaning across her desk.

Donna's face pinched and she put her head in her hands. "I don't know," she said.

Martha pursed her lips and passed the tissue box. It was not a good sign if he wouldn't even talk to his cousin.

"It was hard," Donna continued. "He got a scholarship to go to university, and left. I couldn't afford it, so I stayed behind. We didn't talk as much when he was away, and he tried to act normal when he came back for holidays but as much as he liked the classes I think he was lonely. Perhaps I should have said something then, I don't know. I don't know what I could have done."

"When did things get… bad, then?" Martha asked.

Donna took a deep breath. "It was just after he got his second graduate degree. The one in physics. There were… things going on in my life, and we hadn't talked for about a year. When I finally did call, he sounded different, sadder, lonelier. He asked for money, which should have been the first sign something was wrong, because he'd stopped writing and his publisher dropped him. He said he was just busy so I gave it to him, but for months after that he wouldn't communicate at all. Then I got a call from his landlord as his emergency contact because he hadn't left the flat in weeks."

"Is that when you took him here?"

Donna shook her head. "I found a mental health clinic and tried to set him up as an outpatient but as soon as we left I knew the daft spaceman wouldn't actually go to therapy. So I told him I was taking him home with me to Chiswick but instead drove him here." She looked down at her lap. "I can only hope he'll forgive me."

"I'm sure he will," Martha said. "Ms. Noble, I think you did the right thing. Just give him some time." She leaned forward and met Donna's eyes. "He'll forgive you."

Donna swallowed. Nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Jones," she said. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, then picked up her bags and left without another word.

Martha tried to refocus on the paperwork she'd been doing before Donna arrived, but her thoughts kept wandering back to John McCrimmon. She'd known he was going to be difficult, but his refusal to confide in anyone about his life before his admission was throwing a wrench in her treatment plan. She suspected some sort of post-traumatic stress in addition to the depression, but she couldn't treat it if she didn't know what the trauma was. John's denial and defensiveness was not making anything any easier.

Her thoughts were interrupted when her mobile buzzed. She fished it out of her bag. The number was not in her contacts but she answered it anyway. "Hello?"

"Hi. Um… is this, um, Martha Jones?" a nervous male voice said.

"Yes, who's this?" She thought the voice sounded familiar but she couldn't place it.

"Mickey. Um. Mickey Smith. The mechanic. From two weeks ago. You gave me your number and I, uh, lost it. But I found it again. And now I'm calling it."

 _That's right_. Mickey, the guy who'd fixed her car. He'd been lovely to talk to and rather nice. "Oh, yes! Hello, Mickey. How are you?"

"I'm all right, thanks. You?"

"Fine. Um. I was wondering if you, um wanted to get dinner. With me. Tonight. Or tomorrow. Or whenever you're free. I know a good place"

Martha smiled. "Yes. Tonight sounds great. What place were you thinking of?"

"Um, it's called The Vortex, and I can text you the address, if that's okay?"

"Sounds great, Mickey."

"Great. Um. 6 o'clock?"

"Perfect. I'll see you then."

"Great. Yeah. Perfect. See you."

Martha could hear him sigh in relief before he hung up and she laughed to herself. He was sweet. She found herself looking forward to tonight. It would be nice to get away from work for once.


	4. By Any Other Name

Despite her excitement, Martha was late for her date at The Vortex. A staff meeting had gone on too long and she'd been trying desperately to catch up on paperwork when 5:45 rolled around. She rushed into the restaurant at 6:15 hoping Mickey hadn't given up on her. But he was waiting, sitting alone at a table for two. She felt another pang of guilt at the sight of him, trying to look busy on his mobile and ignoring occasional judgmental or sympathetic glances from the other customers. She made her way over to him as quickly as she could and sat down, giving him her widest smile.

He jumped at her sudden approach and shoved his mobile in his pocket. "Oh! You came."

"Of course I did. I'm so sorry, I got held up at work. I should have texted."

"Oh it's all right. I wasn't waiting long."

Liar. "That's good."

There was an awkward pause. A server stopped by with a basket of bread.

"So. How was work?" Mickey began picking at a roll.

"Good. It was good."

"Do you… you know… like it? Working there?"

"Yes! Yes, I do. It's a very good position. The other staff there are lovely, the patients are lovely."

"The patients? Really?"

"Yes! Well, most of the time. They're not that bad, you know. And Torchwood's an excellent facility. My last job was at Royal Hope Hospital's psychiatric ward, and it's not as conducive to treating mental health patients because most of the hospital's resources are devoted to treating people who are physically ill."

Mickey blinked and seemed lost for a moment. "Wow. You, uh, worked at Royal Hope?"

"Well, yes. It's where I was trained in medical school and where I did my residency."

"Wow. That's uh… wow." He seemed more nervous than ever.

Martha tried to turn the conversation around. "So you're, um, you're an auto mechanic, then? How do you like that? Is it interesting?"

Mickey blushed and stared at the tablecloth. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, it's work."

He didn't say anything else, so Martha said, "So… are you from London?"

"Yeah. Grew up on the Powell Estate, right by the shop."

It was Martha's turn to be uncomfortable. She shifted in her seat and hoped Mickey wouldn't return the question.

"You?"

 _Damn_. "I… actually… grew up in West Kensington."

Mickey's eyes widened.

"But I'm not posh or anything! At least, I didn't go to some fancy public school or something like that."

Mickey picked more vigorously at the roll. "Wow. West Kensington, then. What're you– what're you doing out with a guy like me, eh?"

Martha looked down and shrugged. "Well, that doesn't matter. Or it shouldn't." She looked up. "I like you, Mickey, I do. Please don't think about that part of it. I don't think we're that different."

Mickey raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well, maybe we are, but that doesn't mean this can't work." She paused. "Right?"

"…Right."

Martha ignored the slight hesitation and pressed on, suddenly determined to save her first chance at a social life since starting at Torchwood. "We have plenty in common. Remember our conversation in the shop? Science fiction, remember?"

"Yeah. You watched _John Smith and the TARDIS_ growing up, then?"

"Of course I did! Funny man in a bowtie flies around having adventures in time and space? I spent my childhood waiting for him to crash land in my backyard and take me away with him."

"That would have been amazing," Mickey said.

Martha smiled.

"Me and my mate Rose would watch it all the time as kids," Mickey said.

"Really? I used to– wait, Rose?" Martha had heard that name somewhere before, at work. John McCrimmon had mentioned her, hadn't he? "Wait, does she work at Torchwood, as an orderly?"

Mickey cocked his head. "Yeah. I told her about the job opening there after talking to you. What about her?"

Martha shook her head. "Nothing. It's fine. I've heard her name around the hospital, is all." And she'd forgotten to tell the kitchen staff to have Rose deliver John's meals in the future. _Damn_. Her hand twitched towards her mobile. She was tempted to take it out and send a quick email right then in the middle of her date. _Come on, Martha, what would your mother say._ She clasped her hands in her lap.

"Oh, come on," Mickey said. "Have you seen her around? Is she doing well? She says she likes it, but she hasn't told me a whole lot."

"Honestly, I don't interact much with the orderlies at the hospital. You probably know more than me. But she did say she likes it?"

"Yeah, I mean, she says she likes helping people."

"Well that's good, at least. "

Martha pursed her lips. So far, Rose was the only person to have any sort of positive effect on John McCrimmon, however slight. She was now on a date with Rose's childhood friend. Martha's curiosity overwhelmed her. "Can you– tell me a bit more about her?"

Mickey stiffened slightly. "Why?"

"Because…" Martha hadn't exactly planned on telling the truth. She felt a little like she was using Mickey's information for an advantage at work. But she said anyway, "She's been the only one who's been able to get through to a difficult patient. I just– I want to know how she's done it."

"Oh."

Martha cringed, waiting for Mickey to accuse her of prying.

Then he laughed.

She was so surprised and relieved that she started laughing nervously as well.

Mickey smiled fondly. "That's just like Rose."

"What?"

Mickey shrugged. "I dunno. She has a way with people, I guess. Always has. They talk to her, confide in her."

"What way? How?" On some level, Martha recognized this was beyond inappropriate, but she couldn't to stop herself.

Another shrug. "I dunno. It's just Rose, I guess."

"Right." Martha remembered where she was. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to talk about work."

"It's all right," Mickey said. "I mean, you obviously love your job."

"I do," Martha said. "It's an amazing job. It can be difficult, of course, but I enjoy the challenge."

"Like that difficult patient?"

Martha sighed and looked down. He looked so concerned, and she wanted to trust him. He had one of those faces, she decided. Not a totally unattractive quality, when she thought about it. Her lips twitched at the thought and suddenly she was talking again. "Yeah, it's just– I've been trying really hard to get through to him and get him to accept help, but– it's been… challenging. I guess. Not that I don't appreciate a challenge. But. Yeah. It's hard."

"And Rose got to him?" Mickey said.

Martha blinked. She'd forgotten that had even come up. "I– yes. After only meeting him once."

Mickey nodded like he expected this. "Yeah, that's Rose," he said.

"Is it– just–" Dammit, she was prying again. "How does she do it?"

Mickey shook his head. He might have said something else, but a server stopped by to take their orders. They both laughed when they realized that neither of them had thought to open their menus yet. Martha realized she was quite hungry and ordered the first thing she saw. Mickey did the same and they handed over their menus with vague looks of apprehension that said, _What in the world did I just order?_

Their eyes met across the table and huge grins spread across their faces.

"Hello," Mickey said, looking a bit dazed.

A warm feeling began in Martha's chest. "Hi."

* * *

"They had fish fingers in the dining room yesterday, and there's custard for desert today, but they're never served on the same day," Amy said from her chair as Rose changed her sheets and pillow cases.

"That's unfortunate," said Rose.

"It is," said Amy. "I think they'd be an ingenious combination. Rory thinks so, too."

"Well, it doesn't matter that there's custard for dessert today. You've got a PET scan this afternoon, and you can't eat until afterwards."

Amy crossed her arms and scowled. "No food, an injection, then I have to lie perfectly still on a cold, hard table for an hour and a half. Lovely."

"They need to look at your brain, Amy."

"My brain's fine. I've been taking the pills, haven't I? What more could they want?"

Rose shrugged. "They still need to see the inside, I guess."

"Nothing wrong with my insides," Amy muttered.

"Then they'll see that on the scan, won't they?" Rose said cheerfully. She bundled the old sheets into her laundry cart. She smiled and waved before she continued down the hall, which Amy returned with a petulant frown. Rose kept smiling anyway, because it was Amy's third good day in a row and if she kept this up she'd be able to go home. Rose knew the hospital was necessary and many of the patients needed to stay in the controlled environment, but she recognized that no one actually _wanted_ to be there. Everyone was trapped in some way, by themselves or by relatives. The happiest days were the ones when patients got to leave. She could see cars pull up to the entrance from the break room window on the third floor, and a former patient dressed in street clothes and dragging a suitcase would run out to meet whoever had come to pick them up. There was usually hugging and crying and general happy confusion as the car was loaded and release forms signed outdoors on a clipboard if the weather was good.

Those thoughts kept Rose in good spirits until she received the list of patients for her lunch rounds.

"You've got John McCrimmon again," said Sarah Jane.

Rose nodded. He'd been on her list every day, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, since the first day she'd met him and stolen his almonds. Apparently he wouldn't eat if it was anyone else. A part of her was flattered at this seemingly singular honor, but a rather larger part was afraid that he thought he saw something in her that wasn't actually there. She made to leave the nurse's station for the kitchens but Sarah Jane stopped her.

"Speaking of John McCrimmon, before you go downstairs, his psychiatrist wants to talk to you. Dr. Jones. Her office is on the fourth floor."

"All right." Rose hesitated. "Seems a bit weird. Why does the doctor want to talk to me?"

Sarah Jane shrugged. "She didn't say."

Rose grimaced. She could guess. "Right."

* * *

Martha was picking at wilted lettuce from the cafeteria's garden salad and putting off patient reports when the woman she assumed was Rose Tyler nervously entered her office after rapping softly on the open door. She pushed the disappointing greens aside and gestured to a chair. Rose bobbed her head anxiously and took a seat, hands folded in her lap.

"Dr. Jones," she said.

"Rose Tyler?"

"Yes."

"Um, I wanted to talk to you about John McCrimmon…" She trailed off. She wasn't sure how to talk to Rose. She looked rather ordinary. A bit too much eye makeup and bottle blonde hair. A mouth that was perhaps a bit too wide for her face. Overall, she was rather pretty, but not intimidatingly so. "I need your help with him, Rose."

Rose looked cocked her head, looking very innocently perplexed. "How?"

In an odd way, Martha could see how people would open up to her, just like that. There was an openness, a friendliness about her. Something that said you could confide in her and she would listen and care, and never tell anyone else if you didn't want her to. At least, this is what Martha told herself before she essentially violated doctor-patient confidentiality. "He just hasn't been cooperating with us– me or his therapist– since his cousin's visit. Even when you bring him food he barely eats. The night staff tells me he hardly sleeps either. He's resisting every attempt of me and Dr. Oswald to help him. I just– I don't know what to do. He won't listen or open up in any way, and the truth is, Rose, he has only responded positively to you."

Rose didn't say anything for a while, and for a minute Martha was afraid she'd gone too far and Rose was going to call her out on what they both knew was a significant breach in protocol. Finally, though, she met Martha's eyes and said, "What do you want me to do?" Her brows were slightly raised in concern, and her entire countenance was so sincere Martha unconsciously let out the breath she'd been holding.

"If you're comfortable with it, I'd just like you to talk to him," Martha said. "Perhaps try and open him up to the _idea_ of treatment. It's hard to do any good when he shuts us out completely."

Rose nodded, although she looked uncertain. "I would like to help in any way I could."

"It couldn't hurt for you to try, it really couldn't," Martha said. "I'll have Sarah Jane give the rest of your lunch rounds to someone else." She paused. "Thank you, Rose. Truly."

Rose stood. "I hope I can actually do some good."

Martha gave her what she hoped was a look of encouragement. "I think you already have."

Rose returned the look with an half-smile and left the office.

Martha took a deep breath. All she could do now was wait and trust in Mickey's opinion of Rose. _She has a way with people_. Hopefully that covered John McCrimmon.


	5. Blue Leaves

**Author's note: The views expressed by characters about the treatment of mental illness do not necessarily reflect my views or the views one should hold. This is a complicated issue and there are many possible positions. Spoiler alert for _The House of Blue Leaves_ , if you were ever planning on reading that.**

 **Thanks for waiting, I am currently drowning in summer research applications.**

* * *

Rose hesitated outside John's door. What did Dr. Jones want her to do? Get him to let them help him? How on Earth was she supposed to do that? What was she supposed to say? She stood awkwardly in the corridor, shifting her weight from foot to foot and adjusting the tray of food in her hands. A few nurses walked by and she could feel the odd looks they were giving her. Her face grew hot.

 _This is ridiculous_. _Buck up, Tyler_ , she thought. She drew her shoulders back and knocked on the door. She got no answer, but based on John's behavior recently, she wasn't really expecting one. She opened the door slowly and entered anyway. John was sitting on his bed, back ramrod straight and feet on the floor. He was looking away from her, staring out the window. It was a beautiful day outside, and John's window had a view of an inner courtyard. There was a hawthorn tree in bloom in one corner, planted for some hospital benefactor whose posh-sounding name was enshrined on a plaque at its base. A few patients and various staff were milling about in the center, but John seemed fixated on the tree, white blossoms swaying slightly in the wind.

He looked peaceful in that moment, and Rose placed her tray on the table as quietly as possible.

He didn't speak, didn't move for the longest time. The silence grew very awkward. The stiffness in his body seemed to radiate throughout the room and Rose began to feel uncomfortable.

Not knowing what else to do, she crossed the room and looked out the window at the tree. "'S beautiful, isn't it," she said, trying to make light conversation. She turned and glanced at him, still unmoving on the bed.

He jerked his head towards her and met her eyes. His mouth was pressed into a hard, angry line, and his dark brown eyes looked black.

She flinched involuntarily. She braced herself to be screamed at, prepared to be chased out of the room.

Instead, he let out a small sigh and relaxed slightly. "Yes, it is."

Rose blinked and for a minute forgot what they were talking about. "I love that tree," she said. "When it blooms it looks like a fluffy cloud you could just reach out and touch."

John looked back at the tree. For a moment, his face pinched and Rose thought she caught a glimpse of the sadness, the heartbreak that was always buried beneath John's terrifying anger. Then it was gone and John's face returned to its usual careful blankness. "Have you ever heard of _The House of Blue Leaves_ , Rose?"

Rose shook her head. What was he on about?

"It's a play. Written by some American in the seventies. About the day the pope came to New York."

"Oh."

"It's about a sad, failed songwriter whose wife is crazy." He was staring at the hawthorn again. His face remained blank, but his voice was distant and a bit sad. "He wants to put her in a mental hospital, tells her he saw a tree there that looked like it had blue leaves because it was covered in birds."

"Does he?"

"No."

"Oh."

"His lover runs off with his friend and his son tries to blow up the pope."

"Oh." Rose didn't quite know what to say to that. "What happens to her, then? The wife?"

"He strangles her in the final scene. She dies."

Rose blinked and her mouth dropped open. "That's horrible."

"It's actually a rather lovely story, taken together."

"How is that a lovely story?"

John shrugged. "You have to read it, I think. Or see it performed. I always loved the title, though– _House of Blue Leaves_. Shame it's in reference to an asylum. It sounds so hopeful all on its own."

He fell silent, and Rose chewed her lip. "You aren't hopeful here?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you?"

Rose remembered what Sarah Jane said to her after the first time she'd met John McCrimmon. "Of course."

John gave a small, vaguely derisive huff.

Rose frowned. "I know I'm young, and I've only been here for a short time, but I don't think this is an end point, and it's not supposed to be."

He looked doubtful.

"You're a patient, so maybe you don't see it, but I do. People change here, John, people grow. My friend Amy, for example, is so much better, so much healthier now than she was a few weeks ago. She can think more clearly and understand the world better now. She's getting better." She paused. "And I think you can get better, too." She met his eyes at the end of her speech, and he held them. He had dark brown eyes that seemed much older than the rest of him, and so deep Rose couldn't say for sure how long she'd been looking into them when he finally spoke.

"What _is_ getting better, Rose? Does Amy like the anti-psychotics you feed her? Do they make her feel more like herself or less? Maybe this is just the way I am, the way I'm meant to be, and there's nothing Donna or any of those doctors or psychologists can– or should– do about it."

Rose shook her head. "But are you happy, John? That's all Donna, or any of us, wants. For you to be happy, which you're not. Anybody could see that."

He looked at her with those sad, old eyes again. "We can't all be happy, Rose."

Rose pressed her lips together. "Perhaps not. But you can't just give up on it when it's being offered." She tried to catch John's eyes again but he wouldn't look at her, just at the hawthorn in the courtyard. Perhaps he was imagining it with blue leaves.

"Why are they offering it," he said. "For my sake, or for their peace of mind?"

"What does it matter? If my mum gives me a spa gift card for Christmas because she maybe wants me to take her with me so she can have a spa day, am I going to throw that back in her face?" Rose wondered briefly if this was too crass a metaphor.

John snorted. "You're comparing mental healthcare to minimum-effort Christmas presents?"

Maybe it was. Rose blushed. "You know what I mean."

John turned to her again, eyes narrow. "What if you don't want to go to the spa?"

"So what? I know it'll make Mum happy, and there's a chance I'd benefit from it, too. Even if I didn't want it at first, I'd at least give it a go."

John's face hardened and he looked back out the window.

Rose softened her tone. "Just think about it, John. Is this worth ruining your relationship with your cousin, who is only trying to help?"

His face pinched slightly although he made a valiant effort to control it, and Rose imagined he was thinking, _What if I already have?_

She moved towards him slowly, cautiously. She pressed a hand to his shoulder briefly, lightly, then released it. "Please try and eat your lunch, John," she said. "And remember there are so many people who care about you. Please believe that."

John didn't turn and look at her, and he didn't say anything else, but she heard movement after she closed the door, and she liked to think he sat down at the table after she left, if only to drink the banana protein shake.

He pretended to be asleep when she came back that evening with his dinner, and Rose pretended to buy it. Whether or not Dr. Jones was satisfied, she thought she'd said enough.

* * *

Martha wanted to supervise the meeting next time Donna visited.

"That won't be necessary," John said.

"Are you sure? A moderator might be helpful. It doesn't have to be me, it could be Dr. Oswald, if you like."

"It won't. Be necessary," John said.

There was an edge to his voice and Martha backed down. No use making him angry before Donna even got here. "Fine, if that's what you want."

She must've done a poor job of hiding her nerves over the situation because he said, "I'll be civil, I promise." He was picking intently at a tear in the chair in front of her desk.

Martha thought about it. His demeanor had been different since she sent Rose in to talk to him. In the few therapy sessions he'd had with Clara, he'd been less defensive and angry and a bit more subdued. She decided to take it as a good thing, a thought far preferable to the alternative considering she'd involved an orderly in his treatment. "Right. Good. Same room as before. 12:30."

"Can't wait," John said drily. He stood and left her office without another word.

* * *

Donna entered the visiting room nervously and stood with her back against the door for a few seconds, staring apprehensively at John. He was seated at the table, an didn't lift his eyes from his hands.

"I brought you lunch," she said quietly. "Again."

He tried not to flinch at the reminder of their last meeting.

She put the paper bag carefully on the table. "Your favorite."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. How– how are you, then?"

"I'm fine."

Donna shook her head. "No you're not, John, and we both know it. And– I'm sorry I brought you here when I knew you didn't want it. But you're not okay and I just– I couldn't stand there and do nothing."

John kept staring at his hands. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Please don't be sorry, it's _okay_ , John. I don't blame you for being depr– for being like this. I only want–"

"I'm sorry for what I said last time we spoke."

Donna stopped.

There was a long pause. John held his breath without quite meaning to.

Donna sighed. "Of course I forgive you."

John looked up at her.

"Oh don't give me those sad-eyes, you numpty," Donna said, smiling a bit. "You were upset. I understand."

"I understand too, you know. Why you did it," John said. "You were trying to help. And I appreciate that, truly. I don't want to be ungrateful or anything…"

"John, I don't think you're ungrateful." Donna's eyes were shining. She came around the table and knelt in front of John. "I just want you to get better, all right? I want you to be okay."

John nodded and took a deep breath. "I'll try. I mean, I will." He ran a hand through his hair. "I– I know I'm not okay, Donna. But I _will_ work on getting better, I promise."

Tears leaked out of Donna's eyes and she gathered John into an awkward, warm hug. "I'm so very glad to hear you say that, Spaceman."

John returned the hug, gripping his cousin tightly and trying not to cry himself. "I promise," he whispered. "I _promise_."


	6. Food for Thought

**Happy New Year!** **Thank you everyone who's been reading/following/favoriting/reviewing, I hope you all have a wonderful 2017!**

* * *

Martha loved her job. Truly, she did. Of course, there were still times she wished she could drop everything, throw her white coat down the laundry chute one final time, walk out of this damn hospital and never look back. It would certainly be preferable to having a staring contest with her least favorite patient.

"John, I really think–"

"No."

"But–"

"No."

Martha sighed. "Why not?"

John narrowed his eyes. He took the pill bottle off her desk and held it close to his face. "Why in the world would I ingest something that, 'may cause drowsiness, insomnia,'– I say, how can something cause both drowsiness _and_ insomnia– 'excessive sweating, diarrhea, and sexual dysfunction.' My, they really save the best for last on these labels, don't they."

Martha resisted the urge to snatch it back from him. "Those side effects should be _minor_ compared to the benefits, John. Surely you know that as well. Cipramil is one of the most commonly prescribed antidepressants because of its tolerable side effects."

John placed the bottle back on her desk and carefully wiped his hand on his trousers, lip curled in distain. " _Citalopram_ is an SSRI, drugs meant to radically change brain chemistry–"

"I wouldn't say _radically_ –"

"It's like needing to hammer a very small nail into a board, and then hitting the whole thing willy-nilly with a sledgehammer."

Martha made a fist in her lap. "But you've been doing so well in therapy, Dr. Oswald says you've admitted to your condition and are willing to accept treatment–"

"I didn't know 'treatment' meant _uppers_ –"

"If you would just let me finish a sentence!" Martha snapped. She stopped herself, then took a deep breath. "You've been doing so well in therapy, I would like to build on that by treating your condition medically, as well."

"If I'm doing so well in therapy, why is this even necessary?"

"The treatment of mental illness isn't all in therapy anymore, John. You can talk about things all you want, but sometimes your brain needs a little help getting there."

"There's nothing wrong with my brain."

"Okay. Fine. You just want to talk this out, then?"

"If it's the alternative to _those_ ," he made a dismissive gesture toward the pills, "then yes."

Martha had just about had it. "Fine. Let's begin right now. What happened while you were getting your graduate degree in physics?" She leaned forward and stared hard at the sullen man across from her.

John glared. "Fine, I'll take the pills."

Martha sighed in equal parts relief and disappointment. " _Thank you_. At least try. If you don't like them, we can discontinue them or switch to a different drug."

John nodded tersely.

Martha tried to catch his eye again. "But John," she said. "May I remind you that these are supposed to be _supplemental_ to therapy. I still think it would be a good idea to talk about what exactly triggered your depression. Drugs can't completely smooth over an emotional disturbance like that."

John pressed his lips together. "When am I supposed to take these?" He reached for the bottle again.

Martha was faster this time. "With breakfast. So they don't keep you up at night."

Another nod.

"Rose will bring the correct dose to you with your breakfast every morning. And John," she paused for his attention. "I strongly recommend eating a significant portion of your breakfast when you take these, especially if you're worried about side effects. Seriously, I've seen these cause pretty bad nausea taken on an empty stomach."

The corners of his mouth turned down at the words _side effects_.

"John."

"I understand," he said tightly.

Martha snorted. "I've heard that one before. I'm perfectly aware you understand, I'd like you to actually do it."

"Touché, doctor." One side of his mouth quirked up, like he was glad she recognized his angle.

"I'm just trying to help you, John."

"I know."

* * *

He tried. He really did. Rose brought him a breakfast of eggs and toast and milk and a little medicine cup with a white pill in it. Rose stayed in the room long enough for him to swallow it with half of the toast, then left to finish her breakfast rounds. She would've stayed, she said, but they were a bit short-staffed. He understood. It was her job and she had to earn her wages, not sit around with some rude, depressed, washed-up author. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

He didn't eat anything else after she left, couldn't bring himself to. If he was really honest with himself, he couldn't remember the last time he felt hungry. Christ, it was hard to remember the last time he'd felt _anything_ , except anger and annoyance at people who tried to point out that he wasn't feeling anything. Sometimes he felt sad, well and truly sad. When he talked to Rose about _The House of Blue Leaves_ , he'd been feeling sad. He remembered seeing the play when it was performed by his university theater department. He remembered who recommended it to him.

Remembering those things always made him sad, and he hated feeling that too. He preferred the nothingness. He used to lie in bed for days on end, alone in his old flat, staring at the ceiling and trying desperately to feel nothing. Then nothing became normal, and it became a chore to feel anything else. And why bother anyway? Then second easiest thing to feel was sadness. This gut-wrenching, all-consuming melancholy that made him want to literally rip out his own heart to make it stop. And it wasn't just _sadness_ , it was hopelessness and anxiety and self-hatred and he wanted it all to go away, but then he just felt so fucking _empty_ –

He gagged and spit acidic, stringy bile into the toilet. He blinked himself back into the present, kneeling in the bathroom attached to his room, throwing up his meager breakfast, then his stomach lining. _This has to stop_ , he thought deliriously between dry heaves. _I'll turn myself completely inside out if this continues._ He gripped the sides of the toilet bowl so hard his fingers started to ache, and tried to take deep breaths. They were desperate and irregular, more like gasps than anything else, but it allowed him to focus on something else and get his stomach somewhat under control. He staggered out of the bathroom and collapsed onto his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to keep breathing.

He didn't know how long he'd been lying like that when he heard the door open and Rose's voice, "Oh dear."

He imagined her brow furrowing at the sight of the mostly full breakfast tray she'd come to collect, and could hear the pity and concern in her words. He heard her step outside and call for someone else, probably a nurse. _Don't go,_ he thought. _Please don't go_. The thought came suddenly and was so strong he nearly opened his tightly closed mouth and said it out loud, but another wave of nausea hit and he didn't even have a chance to analyze the implications of the thought before it became necessary to focus all his mental energy on breathing and not vomiting.

He felt the bed dip under his legs and someone said, "Sir."

 _Sir? Who called him 'sir?'_

"Dr. McCrimmon, sir."

Curiosity got the better of him and he cracked his eyes. He looked up at a blurry head on green scrubs. _A nurse_. The head slowly came into focus. _Young. Big nose. Nurse Williams. Rory._

"Sir?"

"Don't call me sir," he mumbled.

"Sorry, sir– I mean, sorry, uh, Doctor."

John grimaced and closed his eyes again.

"Doctor, open your eyes, you need to sit up," Rory said.

John jerked his head, _No_.

"Yes. You're dehydrated, you need to drink something."

John couldn't argue with that logic. He took a few more deep breaths, then slowly, laboriously, pushed himself into a sitting position. It made him dizzy even though he kept his eyes shut, and he felt a headache blooming behind his eyes. _Yes,_ he thought. _Dehydrated_.

"Open your eyes."

He did, and Rory came back into focus holding a plastic cup of water out in front of him. He took it unsteadily and drank.

"Small sips."

The water was cold and felt wonderful on his throat, but he had to fall back on deep breathing to keep it from coming back up. He noticed a kidney bowl on the bed and held it on his lap, just in case.

Rory stood and consulted the file at the end of John's bed. "You probably didn't eat enough with your antidepressant."

 _No kidding._

"This will pass, and overall get better over time, as your body adjusts to the medication."

"My body clearly doesn't want the medication."

"Your digestive tract is just reacting to the excess serotonin."

"I thought these were just supposed to increase serotonin in my brain."

"They're not perfect. They can't target the brain exclusively."

"Like I said. Sledgehammer," John muttered.

"What?"

"Never mind."

* * *

Loath to repeat the incident, John grudgingly ate all of his breakfast the following morning after Rose hurried out again on her rounds. It was scrambled eggs and toast again. The eggs were overcooked and crumbly, and the toast felt like sawdust in his mouth. It all seemed a mushy, tasteless mass and every time he took a bite he had to force himself to swallow. He found it vaguely nauseating all on its own, without the added benefit of the side effects of psychiatric drugs.

They must've been keeping track of how much he ate on one of their many charts, because Dr. "You can call me Clara" Oswald sometimes brought it up in therapy.

"I see you ate your entire breakfast this morning," she said, eyes on that bloody chart. "How was it?"

"Awful."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said without missing a beat, as usual.

He had to admit she was good. Within two sessions she'd learned to deflect or ignore his surly, defensive answers and refocus on the real task of asking him uncomfortable questions. Not that he'd given many satisfactory answers, but she had yet to lose her patience with him.

"Would you like to talk about why it was so awful?"

"No."

"If it tasted so awful, then why did you eat it?"

"You know why. You have a chart."

"Tell me anyway."

"Those pills made me nauseous."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Did eating your entire breakfast help?"

John shrugged. "A bit, I guess."

"That's good."

There were a few moments of quiet, and John stared out the window. Clara's office faced the courtyard as well, and he could see the white flowers.

"Tell me something, John."

He snapped his head back to Clara, who was staring at him intently, clever eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Why did it finally take a morning of severe nausea and vomiting for you to finally eat your entire breakfast?"

"You'd be surprised, but I like my stomach lining in my stomach."

"As most of us do," she agreed easily. "But before that, didn't you ever get hungry?"

"Not really."

"Have you thought about why that is?"

Ah yes. The uncomfortable question of the day. "No."

"Why don't you think about it now?"

"No."

Clara sighed. "John, you've been doing so well these past few sessions. Remember, I just want to have a conversation."

John scowled. He glanced back at the hawthorn tree. This felt like an interrogation more than anything else. He would rather have a conversation with Rose.

Clara leaned forward slightly. "Is something else bothering you, John?"

 _Rose couldn't stay again today_.

"I'm sorry?"

Damn. Perhaps he muttered that out loud. "Nothing. Just talking to myself."

"Tell me anyway."

"Rose couldn't stay again today."

"Really?" Clara's tone was carefully neutral, but her approving nod was a little eager and she was trying not to smile too much.

"I guess she has other duties. It's none of my business."

"But it upsets you when she doesn't stay, doesn't it," Clara said.

John shrugged. "I suppose."

"Why is that?"

John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Can I go now? I'm tired."

"Just answer the question."

John lifted his head. "We only have ten more minutes. I'd like to go now. I'm _tired_."

Clara smiled, but he didn't miss her jaw briefly clench. "Fine. We'll pick up right where we left off next time."

"Sure." He stood and left quickly. Clara could write whatever she wanted on her chart but he was not going to talk to her about Rose, especially not about his _feelings_ concerning her. Those couldn't be relevant to Clara. They were far from significant anyway.


	7. Flirting and Disaster

John watched Rose apprehensively as she put his dinner on the desk. She turned and made to leave, and he felt his chest tighten in disappointment.

When she reached the door, she whipped around and grinned at him with her tongue in her teeth. She laughed at his expression. "I can stay today. Somehow, even though it makes no sense on my dinner route, you ended up last on my list again." She raised an eyebrow. "Did someone complain to his therapist?"

John flushed. "I didn't ask her to do anything. I was just saying."

"'S okay. I'm happy to stay."

"Really?"

"Really." Rose sat on the bed next to him and bounced a little. "You gonna eat your dinner? It's the end of my shift and I'm _really_ hungry." She put her tongue in between her teeth again.

John felt the corners of his mouth twitch up.

"Are you smiling? I bet you'd look really fit if you smiled." She nudged his shoulder and her grin widened.

He looked at his lap and shook his head, but he couldn't help it, he was still smiling. "Don't lie."

Rose laughed. "I'm not lying. I mean, you're too skinny and you might try product in your hair and those clothes aren't exactly flattering but I think if you smiled a bit more and _ate your dinner_ , you could be quite the catch."

John huffed. "Ulterior motive much?"

Rose winked. "I've still got a job, you know. I'm still on the clock here."

"Fine, fine." John got up and inspected his dinner of eggplant parmesan and spinach, with orange slices and strawberries for dessert. He sat down and began picking at it.

"So I picked up an empty tray this morning," Rose said casually. "Good job."

John rolled his eyes. "Adult eats his entire breakfast. Definitely something to celebrate."

"Well it's a sign of improvement, it's exciting."

"It's because I didn't want to throw up everything I'd eaten in the past week again."

"It's a wonder that's what it finally took."

John glowered through a mouthful of spinach. "Don't start. You're beginning to sound like Clara."

"She brought up the food thing, did she?"

More glowering.

"You weren't a git to her, were you?" She sounded like a mother asking a child if he'd been naughty even when she knew the answer was yes.

" _No_ ," he said, a bit too forcefully.

Rose sighed. "Come on. What about trying to get better?"

John bristled. "I _am_. But that doesn't mean I have to like any of this–" he gestured vaguely in front of him. "psychoactive drugs or interrogations by therapists."

"No one said you had to," Rose said. "Recovery is going to be difficult and unpleasant sometimes, but you promised you'd try, right?"

"Are you saying I'm not trying?"

"No. I'm just saying you could give Dr. Oswald– and Dr. Jones, for that matter– a break. They're just doing their jobs."

"I'll think about it," John said sardonically. He grudgingly admitted to himself that he probably would think about it, but he was unwilling to reveal how much influence Rose had over him. Not yet, anyway.

"'S all I ask," Rose said. Then she smiled again, as if the whole tense conversation hadn't happened. "I'll be taking that tray now."

"What?"

Rose nodded towards is plate and he blinked in shock when he saw that it was empty. "Great job," she said. She rubbed his shoulder gently as she came around to take the empty tray. "You're lookin' better already."

He could only stare at his empty desk in shock after she left. He kept seeing her smile when she saw his plate was empty. He felt his lips curl up again, muscles not used in what felt like months pulling his lips into a smile that grew wider and wider until he began laughing. Frantic, slightly hysterical laughter of one who hasn't laughed in too long and doesn't quite remember why one laughs in the first place. It was uncomfortable, almost painful, but once he started, he couldn't stop.

* * *

"The screwdriver is an incredibly useful tool, don't you think? I think so. I used to be able to build and fix all sorts of things in graduate school using a screwdriver and nothing else. I think I could put together a _time machine_ if only I had a screwdriver and a relative differentiator and a chameleon circuit, although now that I think of it I'd also need a star to power the whole thing, now how would I fit a star into a time machine, Dr. Jones? That's the real question here–"

Martha watched as John paced agitatedly back and forth across her office, making wild hand gestures to accompany his speech and alternately fidgeting with his t-shirt and running his hands through his hair. She listened for a few more seconds and then said, "Okay, okay, stop." She pointed to the chair in front of her desk. "Why don't you just take a deep breath and sit down."

John immediately dropped into the chair and drew in a sharp breath. He began picking at the chair again.

Martha frowned. She really wished he'd stop doing that. "So you couldn't sleep last night?"

John gave a jerky shake of his head.

"So you stayed up all night thinking about… time machines?"

John shrugged.

Martha glanced back at his chart. "Have you experienced any more nausea?"

"A bit. Nothing as bad as the first day, though."

"Good. Any fatigue, dry mouth, or diarrhea?"

"A bit, no, and no." He picked at the chair more vigorously.

Martha looked at him searchingly. "Anything else I should know about? How are things going with Dr. Oswald?"

"Fine. Good. Fine. I mean, great. I mean, _brilliant_. They're going brilliantly. Sort of. Rose told me not to be a git to her anymore, so I won't. But I didn't think I was before. But maybe I was…" He trailed off and frowned into his lap. "I don't know."

Martha pursed her lips. _Agitation, confusion, mild hypomania_. She glanced at the sweat stains on his t-shirt and his twitchy hands. _Sweating and tremors_. _Shit_. She'd been hoping this wouldn't happen. It was such a rare condition, and she'd only put John on one type of medication, not even one known to cause severe side effects. But some people were more sensitive to this stuff than others. "John," she began.

"Yes?"

"How– how do you feel about the medication so far? In light of the side effects you've experienced? Do you feel any improvements in your general mood?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. Or I can't tell."

"Do you feel like the improvements, or the potential for improvements, are worth it?"

John frowned. "You know how I feel about drugs."

Martha good a deep breath. "John, you're showing signs of a rare side effect called serotonin syndrome–"

"I know."

"What?"

"I thought something might be pear-shaped when I started laughing hysterically two nights ago and couldn't stop for three minutes."

 _Double shit_. "Right. Well, your symptoms are rather mild for now, and there's a chance they could taper off as your body adjusts–"

"A chance."

 _Stop interrupting me_. "So let's see how you feel over the weekend and we'll reevaluate on Monday."

"Reevaluate what?"

"Well, changing your dose of this medication, switching you to a different drug, or taking you off drugs all together." John opened his mouth, but Martha cut him off. "I know which you'd prefer, but I'd really like to wait a few more days and maybe give these a chance to work."

John snapped his mouth closed and slumped in his chair.

"Just give it a chance, John." Martha lowered her voice and tried to be gentle. "We'll monitor you closely over the next few days, if you start to feel much worse, the weekend staff will help you and let me know. You'll be fine, I promise."

"Fine," John muttered.

Martha wasn't sure if he was mocking her or agreeing with her, but she decided she'd take it. She glanced at the clock. It was 5 o'clock anyway, their session was over, and she had another date with Mickey.

* * *

Their plans for tonight consisted of dinner and a movie. Mickey insisted on picking the restaurant, and Martha agreed as long as she could pick the movie. He said dinner could be casual, but Martha tried to pick out a nice outfit anyway. She went with a deep blue dress and low silver heels, pulled her hair into a simple style and managed to be on time to meet Mickey at the restaurant he'd picked out. She smiled when she saw him waiting outside for her, and even wider when she saw his face as saw her.

"Hi. Um. You look–"

"Thanks." She saved him from awkwardly stuttering until he found an appropriate compliment.

He smiled. "How was work?"

Martha shook her head. "I don't want to talk about work."

"Sorry." He paused and looked carefully at her as they entered the restaurant and sat at their table. "Is– that patient– still frustrating?" he said.

She sighed. "He came around to the idea of accepting help, but he still doesn't want to talk, and he doesn't like taking medication so…"

"That sounds difficult."

"It is. But I don't want to think about it right now, I just want to have a good time tonight." She gave him a hopeful smile.

"All right," Mickey said. "What movie are we seeing tonight? Or is it still a surprise?"

"Patience, Micky, patience."

Of course, she'd bought tickets to the new _John Smith and the TARDIS_ feature film. Mickey was overjoyed, and she let him eat all the popcorn.

"What was your favorite part?" Martha said as he walked her to her car.

"I liked the part when John Smith gets to confront his past self."

Martha nodded. "That was an interesting device. Sometimes I wish I could use that for the PTSD patients."

"Like your frustrating patient?"

"Yes. Well, no, his diagnosis is actually depression…" Martha trailed off.

"What is it?" Mickey said.

"Nothing, I… I was just thinking about something. Something at work."

"I thought you didn't want to think about work," Mickey said.

"I didn't," Martha said. They reached her car and stopped walking. "And until two minutes ago I haven't. So thank you." She turned to him, a wide smile on her face. "I've had a lovely evening, really."

"Me, too."

There was a beat of silence that Martha wouldn't exactly describe as awkward, but wasn't comfortable either. Just two long seconds where neither party was completely sure what the other wanted. She couldn't say exactly who ended it, but suddenly they were kissing until they were breathless and could barely stop smiling to agree on a third date.

* * *

No one called her over the weekend, which meant John was probably basically fine, but Martha met with him on Monday morning with her mind made up the way it had been on Friday night.

"I'm going to discontinue the antidepressants."

"Oh thank God." John ran shaky hands through his hair and sighed in relief. He looked pale and a bit wrung out, although he'd looked that way on Friday as well. Martha noticed dark circles under his eyes, she expected he still wasn't sleeping well, if at all.

"You'll still have to take a pill every morning for the next week or so. The dosage must be lowered slowly so you don't go into withdrawal."

"Fine. Okay."

"I'm also going to change your official diagnosis."

John raised his head at that.

"I think your depression could be more accurately described as a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder."

"What?"

"I think this will help us treat you, John, find the root of your difficulties."

"O-okay."

"I'm going to increase your counseling sessions from two days a week to three. Do you want to continue with Dr. Oswald?"

He considered it for a moment. "Sure. Devil you know and all that," he said drily.

Martha nearly rolled her eyes. If he really disliked Clara he could just ask for a different therapist. She figured if he didn't want to change, he must not dislike her all that much. This pretend hatred was a rather annoying habit. "Good. Let me know if you change your mind."

"Okay."

"John, do you know what this different diagnosis means?"

"I can guess."

"I _really_ want you to consider talking to Dr. Oswald or myself about what happened while you were in graduate school. Therapy is consistently the most effective treatment for PTSD, not medication. I know you're happy not to be on antidepressants anymore, you have to do _something_ to try and get better. I want you to be active in your treatment."

John looked at his lap. He picked at the chair again. "Rose didn't bring my breakfast this morning."

 _What? Crap._ "I don't know anything about the orderly schedule, John. I'll have to ask the administration." Sensing he was about to check out, she tried to catch John's eyes again. "Remember, try and be _active_ in your treatment, okay?"

"Okay," he said dully. He got up and slouched out of her office without another word.

* * *

Rose caught her usual bus on Monday morning excited to get to work. Amy was being evaluated for release soon and John… well, she just liked talking to John. She was usually scheduled to deliver all three of his meals, and he was always at the end of her route. She liked to imagine under different circumstances they would have a rather easy friendship, that wonderful kind of relationship were everything seemed to fall into place without either person trying.

She blushed as she remembered last week she'd tried flirting with him. Strictly speaking, that was probably horribly inappropriate, but he didn't seem to mind, and he ate his entire dinner. He'd smiled, too. She'd discovered he had dimples. Her lips twitched up just thinking about it, then she remembered she was on a crowded bus smiling at nothing and she struggled to bring her face under control. There were no seats left when she'd got on, so she was standing, loosely gripping a rail above her and trying to stay out of the way as more people got on the bus.

She glanced around out the windows at the congested London streets. _Traffic looks pretty bad today_.

No sooner had she thought this and there was a loud car horn from very close by and a loud screeching of brakes as the bus began to skid. Rose was thrown off balance with the rapid deceleration. There was a crash and the sound of glass shattering, and the bus lurched to a sudden and complete halt. Rose dimly registered panicked shouting in the background, but was distracted as she lost her grip on the rail and staggered forward. She put out her hands to catch herself, but couldn't stop her forehead from colliding with a steel pole in front of her.


	8. Where It Went Wrong

Rose didn't think she lost consciousness, but _Blimey, that hurt_. Her ears were ringing, so she put her hands over them, but that made it sound louder. She blinked hard and tried to figure out what was going on around her. People were rushing about all around her, except she was on the ground and they were standing and they were all very tall, and moving very fast.

They were making her dizzy, so she closed her eyes. The floor seemed to tip under her. _Nope. No, bad idea._ She opened them again and tried to focus on the floor in front of her. What was she doing on the floor? She heard sirens outside. Was there an emergency somewhere? She clumsily lowered her chin to her chest and looked at the white scrubs under her jumper. She was on her way to work. Crap. She was going to be late. She should stand up, try to catch another bus.

Part of her brain thought this was an excellent idea, but her thoughts seemed to be moving in slow motion, and her body remained sitting inelegantly on the floor, propped up on her hands and staring unfocused at nothing. She had no idea how long she stayed like this when she felt a hand on her arm.

She jerked her head up and was immediately dizzy. "Woah…" She began listing to the side.

"Steady on, it's okay."

She heard a low, soothing voice in front of her and another hand on her shoulder, keeping her upright. She blinked hard again and tried to focus on the face connected to the voice. It was a constable, she realized. A middle-aged woman with a blonde bob and kind eyes.

"What's your name?" she said.

"Uh… Rose Tyler." She knew her name, but her brain was working so _slowly_.

"Hello, Rose. My name's Kate. When's your birthday?"

"Um… March 31, 1988. 3 pm."

Kate chuckled. "Good. Do you know where you are, Rose?"

Rose frowned. "…The bus. I think I fell down."

"There's been an accident, Rose. When you fell, did you hit anything? Are you hurt?"

Too many words. Rose tried to process what had been said. "Um…"

"Are you hurt?" Kate repeated slowly.

"…My head. My head hurts."

"I know. Does anything else hurt?"

Rose considered this. Now that she thought about it, her head _really_ hurt. Christ, this had to be the worst headache of her entire life. She brought shaky hands to her temples. "My head. _Really_ hurts." She felt tears leak out of the corners of her eyes.

"Shh, shh, it's okay." Kate seemed to give up on her previous question. "Can you walk?"

"I…think so?" Rose struggled to account for all her limbs, then all her fingers and toes. All seemed attached and relatively pain-free.

"Here, I'll help you."

Rose clumsily grabbed two yellow-clad arms in front of her and staggered to her feet. The world spun violently around her and she began to feel a bit motion sick. She leaned heavily against Kate and tried to get her balance. Kate led her slowly towards the door of the bus.

"There are three steps down, right in front of you. Ready?"

Rose didn't have a response to this, but Kate didn't wait for one before slowly guiding Rose down the stairs. Each jolt sent a new wave of pain through her head, and when the bright light hit her eyes she promptly leaned over and lost her breakfast. She felt Kate supporting her from behind and yelling something about help, but it was very loud and she covered her ears again and shut her eyes.

When she opened them, she was lying on a stretcher with her neck encased in a foam collar. A blurry figure leaned over her. "Rose? Rose, are you awake?"

"I think so…"

"Rose, you're hurt, and we're going to take you to hospital."

Hospital. She worked at a hospital. That's where she'd been going. "Have to go to work," she mumbled. She tried to sit up.

A hand on her shoulder pushed her back down. "You can't go to work. You have to go to hospital. Is there anyone we can call?"

"My… my mum. Number's…in my mobile. Passcode is… 7-6-7-3."

"Thank you, Rose. You can go to sleep now."

So she did.

* * *

"John. John. John!" Someone snapped their fingers loudly in front of his face.

John started and refocused on Clara. "What?" They were only ten minutes in and he was already desperately begging the universe to take pity on him and open a wormhole so he didn't have to suffer through the rest of this goddamn therapy session.

"I said, why don't we talk about your time at university?"

"Which time," he said dully.

"The first time," Clara said. She'd given up on the Rose angle after a couple of sessions of stonewalling on his part, and was now having another go at his past.

He supposed it had something to do with Martha's new diagnosis. Whatever. Clara could ask whatever she liked, he wasn't going to talk about that. He couldn't focus on Clara anyway. It was Wednesday, and Rose had yet to bring him a single meal. His food was being delivered by random orderlies instructed to stay and make sure he ate at least two-thirds of it, but none of them made conversation, or were friendly like Rose. They just stood awkwardly by the door and watched in silence as he ate the bare minimum to get them to leave. Both Martha and Clara denied any knowledge of the reason for the change, and he wondered if perhaps he should take matters into his own hands.

"John!" Another finger snap in his face.

" _What_?"

"John, focus. If I have to have three of these with you per week instead of two, I want them to actually be worth it."

"Prepare to be disappointed."

"You can't keep this up forever."

"Watch me."

"No." Clara was shaking her head. "You think you can ignore this, but you can't. You've clearly been traumatized by something, and you need to talk about it. And don't tell me it doesn't matter because it's all in the past– that's a lie and we both know it. You can't truly put this behind you until you talk about it. So talk."

"No."

"Fine." Clara put her chart aside. "If you won't talk, then we can just sit here in silence while I get some actual work done." She pulled her computer onto her lap and began typing.

John blinked in shock. Had she actually lost her temper this time? He felt a bit bad about that. Martha lost her temper with him all the time, but if Clara was mad… What had Rose said? That he could give Clara a break. Fine job he was doing of that. "I was lonely," he said suddenly.

Clara stopped typing and looked up at him over her laptop. Nobody moved for a while.

"I didn't have any friends except my roommate. He convinced me to come with him when he got his graduate degree in history. I liked him. But he left."

"What was your roommate like?" Clara said gently. She put her laptop aside and leaned forward, staring at him with her big, sympathetic eyes.

"He was loud and brash," John said. "He went to a lot of parties and slept with anything that moved. He was American, and very different from myself but we got along well. He made sure I didn't… withdraw too much."

"What did he do?"

"He convinced me to talk to people. I was younger than most of the other students and I was uncomfortable in crowds. He convinced me to send my stories to a publisher. But… he's gone now."

"What happened to him?"

John shrugged. "He fell in love. After hooking up with half the graduate student body, he finally fell in love with a professional cook and they moved to America after we finished the history program. I'm happy for him. I am."

"But you miss him," Clara said.

"Of course."

"So you started your second graduate program alone."

"Yes."

"Did you make any new friends?"

John drew his knees to his chest. He looked back out the window. "None that lasted."

"Didn't you reach out to your family? Or your cousin?"

"No. I– it's my life. I could handle it."

Clara nodded thoughtfully. "Right. You could handle it."

"I could."

"I don't doubt that," Clara said softly, "But something happened after your roommate left. Please, John, tell me."

John shook his head. His chest felt tight, and his throat was closing. "People leave," he whispered, because he didn't want to hear his voice break. "People always leave. And I can never save them."

* * *

He threw out the random orderly who brought him dinner. He wanted to toss the food out the window, but the screen was sealed shut, and there were no sharp objects to be found to cut it.

 _That's right,_ he thought. _I'm in a mental hospital_. He shoved the tray and everything on it off his desk. He imagined the dishes shattering against the door. That would be a satisfying display of anger, wouldn't it? But everything was plastic and bounced harmlessly to the floor, making a mess of stew and potatoes all over the floor and desk.

He stepped back before it got on his socks and ran his hands through his hair. "Fuck." _Fuck this_. He collapsed onto the bed and drew his knees to his chest. He closed his eyes against the mess. An orderly would find it and take care of it.

 _You should be ashamed of yourself_. He heard Donna's voice in his head.

"Stop. Just stop," he muttered. He pressed his hands to his temples.

 _You wonder why you're here– it's because you can't face your messes. You can't handle life anymore, John._

"I know. Fuck, I know."

 _What happened to you? What happened to my cousin?_

"I don't know. He's gone. It's just me, now. A head case and a failure."

 _No, he's not. I_ know _he's not. Tell me, John, please. Tell me what happened to you._ She was begging him, pleading. He screwed his eyes shut tighter, even though there was nothing to see except spilled stew.

"I can't. I just can't. I can barely think about it. Please don't make me talk about it."

 _I'm in your head. I can't make you do anything_.

"Shit. I know." He listed to the side and curled up sideways on his bed. "I really am going crazy," he told the air in front of him. His words almost echoed in the empty, silent room. He looked at the spilled food again, and for some reason suddenly felt his heart breaking. He was surrounded by people all the time here– other patients, orderlies, nurses, doctors, therapists. But somehow he still felt so isolated and alone. And the loneliness felt like it smothering him. Like a soft, inexplicably heavy cloud that made the whole world look grey and dull. And it only ever seemed to lift around one person.

 _Rose_. He pressed his face into his pillow. _Rose, where are you?_

* * *

John did not normally frequent the common areas, but patients were not allowed on ground floor where the offices were without appointments, so he figured this was his best chance of seeing Martha again. He sat on a window ledge and watched patients and staff mill about for all of Thursday with no luck. He even ate his meals out there, just in case she wandered by. The other patients hadn't seen much of him, and they spent the whole time giving him wary looks and a wide berth.

It wasn't until Friday, and an entire, agonizing week without Rose, that he finally ran into her. "Dr. Jones!" He sprang up with uncharacteristic energy and followed her.

She jumped and turned around. "John! What is it? I'm so sorry, I've got a few new patients and I've been busy. Is everything all right?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Where's Rose? Is she still here? I haven't seen her. I want to see her."

"I'm so sorry." Martha looked flustered. "I meant to tell you, but I forgot. Her mother called her in sick on Monday. I don't know when she'll be back."

"You don't know? What happened? Is she okay?"

"She's probably fine. I'm sorry, John, that's all I know. She'll probably be back soon, okay?"

"Okay." No, this was not okay. This was far from okay. "Is that really _all_ you know?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." Martha glanced at her watch. "I'm sorry, John, I really have to go. I'll let you know if I learn anything else. Please don't worry about it. Or– why don't you talk about it with Dr. Oswald in therapy today. I'll see you next week." She hurried off down the hall.

John spent the rest of the afternoon, and his therapy session, sulking. Clara had clearly been notified of the issue and tried to question him about it, but he replied with terse, one-word answers and spent most of the time staring out the window. What good would it do to talk about it with Clara? She didn't know any more than Martha, probably less. He was distracted and fidgety the entire time, probably driving Clara insane, but he couldn't think about that now.

 _Where is Rose? Is Rose okay? Rose has to be okay._ _I need to be sure she's okay._ He had to see Rose. _Had to_. Almost without trying, he began to think of a plan.

On the way back to his room from Clara's office, he lingered by a nurse's station and when no one was looking, carefully nicked an ID badge, a hairpin, and screwdriver.


	9. We're All Mad Here

**Sorry for the long wait! These chapters are getting really long…**

* * *

John had no trouble staying awake that night. He waited until 9 o'clock, when most of the orderlies left after dinner rounds and the staff completely turned over for the night. Like all patients, he was locked in every night, but with a hairpin that was not John's main obstacle. No, the first problem would be getting through the hallways. There were no security cameras in the far stairwell, but the hallways were definitely covered, and he didn't think he could completely avoid them. He figured in the low-resolution images, if he walked with enough confidence, the soft trousers and t-shirt he had to wear as a patient might pass for plain nurse's scrubs, especially if he clipped the ID badge to his pocket. Magic access cards, those things. He recognized this plan was dependent on whoever was monitoring the cameras not looking too closely, but he wasn't on a high-security ward, and as far as he knew patients didn't break out that often. No one would be expecting it.

He took a few deep breaths to prepare himself, then opened the door to his room and strode into the hallway, keeping his head somewhat down to hide his face and trying to look like a busy nurse on the way to the next patient. The hallway was empty and he reached the stairwell without incident.

 _Right. Good. First stop, human resources office._ It was on the first floor, blessedly near the stairwell. But movement would be unusual at this time of night, so if he was going to be caught anywhere, it would probably be there. His heart was racing so fast he thought there might be two of them, but no one bothered him as he picked the lock to the HR office outer door, then the filing cabinet that said _Employee Records_. He felt around for a penlight on a desk that looked well-stocked, and held it in his teeth as he rifled through the files on the entire staff of Torchwood.

He flicked impatiently through the folders, heart pounding in his ears. The more time he spent here, the more likely he was to get caught and brought back to his room. He couldn't let that happen, he just couldn't. They would catch him and bring him back eventually, but he had to get out first. He had to see Rose. _Taylor, Tesman, Thicke, Torrence, Tyler!_ He couldn't help a brief smile of exhilaration as he carefully removed the file labeled _Tyler, Rose_. He flipped it open and his eyes lingered her ID photo. It was a good picture of her, he thought. She was smiling, her golden hair framing her lovely face, and she looked hopeful. His fingers unconsciously brushed the picture. _Focus! Where's her address?_ He found it right below the photo, memorized it, and carefully replaced the file. He judged it too risky to go back into the hall, and scanned the room with the penlight for another way to exit.

 _The window_. He threw open the sash and found the screen irremovable. _Shit_. He felt around for a weakness, then noticed it was screwed into place. _Screwdrivers always come in handy_ , he thought smugly, and began loosening the screen. He removed it and put it aside, then noticed a lost and found bin in a corner. He glanced outside, where it looked cold and misty, and he was already without shoes. He poked through it a bit and pulled out a long tan trench coat. It seemed his style and it looked warm, so he shrugged it on climbed out the window. His socks were instantly soaked on the grass, so he peeled them off and put them in a deep pocket of the coat. _I might have to hang on to this_.

He wasted no time and hurried across the green to the… wrought-iron gate. _Shit_. He stood contemplating it for a minute, then felt is long coat flap in the wind behind him. _Long coat._ He shrugged it off, barely feeling the cold mist on his arms, and folded it in half. Taking a few deep breaths to brace himself, he threw the coat over one of the spikes on top of the gate so he was still holding both ends, then jumped as high as he could and used the coat to pull himself over. He just made it over the spikes without tearing his clothes or his skin and landed barefoot on the pavement with a wince. There were no cars in sight, so he started walking in a a random direction until he found a street with more traffic. He hailed the first cab he saw and climbed in.

"Where to, mate?"

"The Powell Estate."

"Sure thing."

John sat back as the cab moved forward, and almost laughed when he realized his hasty plan actually worked. He quickly sobered when he remembered his worry over Rose's health, but not before he recognized this was the most alive he'd felt in months.

John nearly jumped out of the cab before it had fully stopped at the base of the towering estate building.

"Oi! You going to pay?"

John hadn't thought of that. "Yes. Yes I am, just give me two minutes." He began bounding up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

He finally made it to the ninth floor and began walking down the open corridor until he found flat 926. His heart was thudding in his chest again. _This is it. I've done it. I've found her_. He pressed the buzzer.

A woman in her late fifties with bottle-blonde hair opened the door almost immediately. "Who the 'ell are you?"

John's jaw dropped open for a minute. "I– you– Does Rose live here?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, who wants to know?"

"I'm John. John McCrimmon. I'm– a friend." Were they friends? Could he say that?

"Friends from where?"

John hesitated. "From work."

"Hmhmm." John thought for a minute he was in, but then she said, "So why 'aven't you got any shoes?"

"I–"

"Are you a _patient_ at that hospital?"

"Well, I–"

"My God, the nerve of you! How do you even know where we live, eh? Are you stalking my Rose?"

"No, I just–"

"I'm calling the police."

* * *

At the insistence of her mother, Rose had gone to bed early even though she was feeling basically fine. She'd only spent about forty minutes at the hospital, where she'd been diagnosed with a mild concussion and advised to take it easy for a while. If it had been up to her, she'd've been back at work yesterday, but her mother insisted she give it a full week. Perhaps she was right– Rose still got headaches and her thoughts were frustratingly slow, but she was sure she'd be back to normal come Monday. Still, she was getting kind of tired of going to bed at 9 like a child, and she'd only been dozing when she heard her mother answer the door and what sounded like the rather heated conversation.

"I'm calling the police."

 _What?_ She shot out of bed and made her way through the kitchen. "Mum, who is it? Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine, sweetie, just go back to bed."

"Mum, what is it?"

"Nothing, honey, I'm taking care of it–"

"Rose!"

Rose jumped at the voice. She hurried through the kitchen and turned the corner. "John? What on earth are you doing here?"

He didn't say anything at first, just stood there in the doorway staring at her. "Rose," he said. "You're all right."

"Of course I'm all right, are _you_ all right? You must be freezing, come inside."

"Rose!" Her mother looked scandalized.

"Mum, what are you doing? Put your phone down." Rose grabbed her mother's mobile out of her hand and hung up the call to the local constabulary.

"Rose, he stalked you here, he could be dangerous."

"Oh calm down, Mum he's not dangerous. Are you, John?"

John jerked his head back and forth. "Not at all, I just came to–"

"You can tell us all about it later, just come inside." Rose grabbed his elbow and tugged him indoors. He looked rather ridiculous, wearing this crazy long trench coat she'd seen in the lost and found over hospital-issue clothes and his hair plastered to his forehead from the rain. "Would you like some tea? I promise we make it better here than at the hospital. And maybe a blanket? Your lips are blue." She led him to the sofa and removed his damp coat and threw a blanket over his shoulders.

"Rose, what are you doing? Who is he?"

"He's a friend, Mum. It's fine."

"Well I'd like to know–"

She was interrupted by a loud car horn echoing up the estate and through the open door. John winced. "That'd be the cab I took over here. I don't have any money on me, and I'd pay you back, I promise, but–"

"Of course we will, and don't worry about paying us back," Rose said.

"Now wait just a minute–" Jackie said.

"Mum, please. Can you just pay the cab driver?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Jackie picked up her purse and stalked outside toward the stairs.

"Thank you," said John. He pulled the blanket tighter around him. "I will pay you back, I promise. Just as soon as I have access to money."

"You don't have to." Rose sat down next to him. "Now really, _what_ in the world are you doing here?" John didn't say anything for a minute, just curled his legs under him. Rose noticed his feet were bare. Christ, did he come all the way here without shoes?

John mumbled something into the blanket.

"What? It's okay, you can tell me." She sat next to him on the sofa and awkwardly rubbed his shoulder.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay?"

"What?"

"You weren't at work. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Rose shook her head. "I'm fine, of course I'm fine. What about _you_? John, whatever possessed you to come out here? What did you do– break out? How on earth did you manage that."

"I'm very clever with a screwdriver." He kept looking over at her, brows furrowed with worry. His eyes flicked up and down over her, as if he was checking to make sure she was all there.

Rose sighed. "John, I'm _fine_. There was an accident on the bus." She felt him tense under her hand. "Don't worry, I'm okay. Just a mild concussion. I'm all better now, I'll be back to work on Monday. I promise."

John nodded again. "I'm sorry for bothering you," he said softly. "I don't know what I was thinking I just– you weren't there. And Dr. Jones didn't know anything and I– I wanted to make sure you were okay. I needed to."

Rose felt her heart go out to him. "It's okay, John, you're not bothering us. And– that's actually really sweet of you."

He smiled.

"Totally and completely mad, of course." They chuckled. "But very sweet.." She drew him into a hug. She was glad to feel that he had warmed up, and didn't feel as bony as he looked when she'd first met him. She briefly wondered how she became so invested in him, but before she could think about it they were holding each other so tightly she wondered if she didn't need him as much as he needed her.

They stayed like that until Jackie loudly cleared her throat behind them.

Rose gently pulled away. "Yes, Mum?"

"This is all very nice, but– John, is it?– can't stay here all night. I won't be caught harboring a fugitive."

"He's not a fugitive, Mum!" Rose said. "Besides, how's he going to get back? We don't have a car, and I'm not putting him back in a cab, alone," Rose said.

"Fine. John, is there anyone I can call to take you back?"

"At this hour? Mum, he can just take my bed, I can sleep on the sofa–"

John spoke up. "Donna. I can call my cousin Donna."

"Great." Jackie handed him her mobile and gave Rose a look that silenced any more arguments.

* * *

"I can't believe you!" Donna hadn't said much in the way of scolding on the phone, apparently content to save it for the car. "Are you out of your bloody mind? I mean, I know you're not exactly balanced these days, but I didn't think it would drive you to do something like _this_. Are you on any weird medication still? Did Dr. Jones actually take you off those antidepressants?"

John waited until she was finished. "No I'm not and yes she did. I'm fine. I'm sorry about causing you trouble." He stared resolutely out the passenger window at the rainy street.

Donna glanced anxiously at him. "Should I have visited more often? Is that what this is about? I'm so sorry I haven't been around, John. I'm just trying for a permanent position at this new company– no more temping, you know? And things with Shaun are becoming serious and I just–"

"It's okay. This isn't about that, I promise."

"Okay." She took a deep breath. "So what is it about, then? What in the name of Heaven and Earth possessed you to break out of a mental hospital, take a cab to some council estate, then call me to bring you back?"

"I– I don't know. I just had to see her."

"Who? That blonde girl who answered the door?"

"Her name's Rose."

Donna considered this, then her face softened and she nodded slowly. "Okay, John. I understand."

"It's not what you think, Donna. She's an orderly at the hospital and she's– she's my friend. She wasn't at work all week and I wanted to make sure she was okay."

Donna raised an eyebrow. "You couldn't just call her? You found her address, Lord knows how, you must've found her phone number."

John reddened. In his panic over Rose's health, he hadn't thought of it.

Donna shook her head. "You usually think of everything, Spaceman. You must be really out of it."

John pressed his hands to his eyes, suddenly exhausted. This was crazy. He was crazy. What was he doing? He felt the car slow and pull over to the side of the road.

"Hey, John. Look at me."

He didn't move.

"John, come on." Donna put a hand on his shoulder, and his strung-out brain snapped right back to Rose, and every time she touched him– flirting with him last week, then comforting on her sofa this evening. He recalled every detail around those touches, her smile, her voice, how she smelled.

"Fuck," he whispered. He opened his eyes and looked at his cousin. She looked tired as well, they were both up way too late, and she'd had to drive halfway across London. But she was just looking at him now, and he remembered Rose, of course, saying _there are so many people who care about you_.

"I'm sorry, John," she said. "I don't mean to berate you, I really don't. I'm tired, and this whole situation is completely mad, but to be honest I'm glad you did this."

"Really?"

" _Yes_ ," Donna said. She laughed, a breathless, exhausted sound. "When you do something totally and completely insane, I know you're going to be okay."

John stared a her for a minute, then laughed as well in spite of himself. "You think I'm going to be okay?"

"Of course I do." She gripped his shoulder again. "John, you reached out to someone. For the first time in God knows how long, you did _something_ to connect to another person." She paused until he met her eyes. "I think you're getting better, truly, I do. And I think you can be happy again, and you deserve to be. I believe that. Do you?"

John took a deep breath. "Yes. I do. Or I'm getting there." He rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, I'm really tired."

Donna laughed again. "I know, Spaceman. So'm I. Let's get you back to the hospital, shall we?"


	10. The Shadow of Death

_"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,  
I fear no evil,  
for thou art with me;  
thy rod and thy staff,  
they comfort me."  
– Psalm 23_

* * *

Martha was having the most amazing dream. She wasn't exactly sure what it was about, but she was sure she felt fantastic about it. And Christ, why shouldn't she after that week at work? She'd been assigned three new patients which would have been more than enough, but one of the other doctors had left the institution, and with no immediate replacement, the Chief of Medicine had assigned four of his cases to Martha as well. Between staff meetings, getting to know her new patients and making sure they all got care consistent with what they were used to and what they needed, she'd barely had time for coffee and half a sandwich for lunch. As a result of her new, insane schedule, she'd let some of her old patients fall a bit to the back burner. She believed they were all doing pretty well, making steady improvements. She even had high hopes for John. She was feeling good about the change in diagnosis and increased regular therapy, he'd put on a little weight while on the antidepressants and didn't seem in danger of losing it. It was all going to be fine.

Of course, he chose this week to be an absolute horror. Why, why, why was Rose out sick this week? The man's recovery seemed impossibly tied to the presence of this orderly. She felt bad about her dismissal of him, she knew he needed more information, but she told him everything anyone knew. Apparently Mrs. Tyler had been very short on the phone. She wished she could've looked into it on her own, but every time she sat down to do some digging, another crisis would occur and somehow it never got done. God, she was just looking forward to a nice, slow weekend so she could come back on Monday with renewed energy to tackle this John problem. And everything else.

Mickey texted her every night, usually after she'd crawled into her bed after a microwaved dinner, and then she'd fall asleep halfway through their conversations. She was so exhausted Friday afternoon she almost cancelled their date.

She hadn't, and she was so fucking glad of it. Dinner at a small pub was blessedly short, and at the end Mickey stammered if she was really tired she could sleep at his place since it was closer, he'd sleep on the sofa. She hesitated at first, because wasn't this only the third date? But he was so nice to talk to and to be around and she was having such a lovely time she said yes, that would be great. Mickey insisted the entire way to his flat that he had no agenda, no intentions, he would never do anything she wasn't comfortable with.

However, Martha eventually decided that _she_ definitely had intentions. It had been a bloody long week, and she really liked him, so she said, "You don't _have_ to sleep on the sofa," and smiled at him suggestively.

He looked sort of stunned and stuttered, "Okay."

* * *

And now, Martha was having a wonderful dream. It was the kind that made you want to stay asleep forever and just bask in the feeling of perfect happiness.

At it most certainly did not include the loud ringtone of her mobile.

Martha groaned and peeled her eyes open.

She heard Mickey stir beside her. "'S that yours, babe?"

"Yeah. Sorry." She reached down and glanced at the caller ID. It was work. That couldn't be good. "Hello?" she said quietly, standing and shrugging on a t-shirt she was pretty sure was Mickey's and walking into the living room.

"Is this Dr. Jones?" said one of the night nurses.

"Yes."

"One of your patients, John McCrimmon, broke out of the facility tonight."

"What? How?"

"Um… we're not exactly sure yet. In fact, I don't know when we would've discovered he was gone except… he came back."

"What?" It was way to late for this. Martha struggled to wake up and say something intelligent.

"Yes, it seems he broke out to go see someone, then called his cousin, and she brought him back."

"Wha–?" Martha shook her head. _Snap out of it_. "Is he okay? I mean– is he stable, mentally?"

"Seems so."

God, Martha hated the night staff. "Give me twenty minutes, I'll be right over." She snuck back into the bedroom and gently shook Mickey. "I'm sorry, Mickey. There was an emergency at work and I have to go," she whispered.

"'S'okay," he murmured. "I'll see you again, right?"

"Definitely. I'll call you." She kissed him again as another apology, then pulled on her clothes and slipped out the door.

* * *

She met John in his room for the first time. He was in bed but not asleep, sitting on top of the duvet against the head board staring at the wall.

"Hello."

He didn't say anything.

"You've had quite an exciting night, haven't you?"

He shrugged, but he met her eyes, which was something.

"They wondered how you got the screen out in the HR offices."

"I told you I could do anything with a screwdriver."

"So you did. The real question is, why did you climb out a window in the HR offices?" She thought about it for a minute. "Were you looking for something in there?"

"Excellent deduction, Dr. Jones." He seemed to be in a good mood. It was weird.

"Thanks. What were you looking for?"

"An address."

"Right, because that makes perfect sense." Martha rolled her eyes and took the bait. "Why did you need an address?"

"Well I wouldn't escape without a destination in mind, would I?"

"I dunno, I wouldn't put it past you."

He clucked his tongue.

"Fine. Where did you go?"

"Oh come off it, you're dying to know."

God, how was he still so irritating? "Enlighten me."

"The Powell Estate."

Martha was too tired for this. "What's that?" she said shortly.

He sniffed. "Calm down, doctor. I just wanted to see Rose."

 _Shit._ She knew her lapse in that department would come back to bite her. "I'm sorry, John, I wish I could've found out more–"

"It's fine, doctor. Really." He wiggled his bare toes. "I found out for myself. Barefoot at the Powell Estate."

 _You're completely mad._ Yikes. She couldn't say that out loud. "About that– are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes. Brilliant. Molto bene."

"Really?"

"Like I said. Brilliant."

Martha narrowed her eyes. He didn't look _happy_ , per se, but he also didn't look sad or angry, which was quite a significant difference. Perhaps he really was stable. "Is there anything you need?"

"Yes. I'm having trouble sleeping. Can you give me something for that?"

Martha raised her eyebrows. He'd never asked for medication before. "Um. Yeah. Sure. I'll have a nurse bring you some Benadryl." She stood up.

"No."

"Sorry?"

"I'd like– something stronger than that. Please."

Martha blinked. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please. I just want to sleep. For a solid eight hours, no nightmares."

He'd never mentioned nightmares before, but Martha should have guessed. She didn't really have the energy to question him about it now, though. "I'm sorry, John, I don't like prescribing strong hypnotics to patients with symptoms of depression."

"Because I might try to kill myself?"

 _Why does he have to know everything?_ "They can be very addictive and– well, yes. Strong hypnotics have been linked to an increased risk of suicide and self-harm in at-risk patients."

"And you'd consider me at-risk?"

Martha sighed. "Of course. Would you like me to list all the reasons why?"

John pursed his lips. "I won't kill myself, I promise."

"You know I can't take your word for it. I'm sorry." She turned towards the door.

"Martha."

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob at the familiar name. She turned around. "Yes?"

He got up and came towards her. "I _won't_ commit suicide. I would never even consider it, not for a second."

Martha nodded. "I'm glad to hear that, John, truly. But these drugs can really mess with your head. I'm sorry, it's just too risky. Are you sure you can't make do with the Benadryl?"

John glared at her. "Fine." He returned to his bed, muttering, "Not that it'll do anything."

She opened the door and turned back. "John, I'm really sorry. We can talk about it more on Monday, yeah?"

"Whatever." He pulled the duvet over his head.

 _Right. Very mature_. Martha closed the door behind her and tried to put it out of her head. Every time she thought he might be improving, there was another problem. She wanted to help him, she did, but it was frankly exhausting. She rubbed her forehead irritably. _Get out of your head, Jones. Get some sleep over the weekend, deal with it later._

* * *

Rose was eager to pick up right where she left off when she returned to work, seeing Amy released and John look alive again. But her hopes for the former were shattered when she saw Amy had been removed from her breakfast rounds. She hoped that it was because Amy was eating at the patient canteen now, or better yet, that she'd been released, but soon discovered her favorite patient had been found catatonic and transferred to the intensive care ward on the fifth floor. She begged to be allowed to visit her, and allowed on the condition that she finish her breakfast rounds first.

This meant she wouldn't have time to spend with John, who was at the bottom of her list again. She felt bad about it, especially when his face lit up when she entered his room. He looked awful, very pale with deep shadows under his eyes, but he gave her the widest smile when he saw her, and despite herself she smiled back.

"You're back."

"I am."

"How are you feeling?"

She almost laughed the concern on his face. "I'm okay. How are _you_ feeling? You didn't catch a cold after your jaunt in the rain on Friday?"

He shook his head and peered at the food. "That's an old wives' tale. I'm fine."

"You look tired."

He frowned at his toast. "Haven't been sleeping well. Dr. Jones won't give me sleeping pills."

"Why not?"

"I'm a suicide risk."

"Oh. She's probably right, then. If it's not safe, it's not safe." Rose's heart pounded in her ears at the thought of John killing himself. _Everyone can be helped_ , she thought. _Everyone can be helped._

"I won't kill myself." He looked up at her when she didn't respond. "Dr. Jones doesn't believe me."

Rose rubbed his shoulder. "Dr. Jones is a psychiatrist, John. I don't think she's in the habit of trusting her patients."

"Do _you_ trust me?"

"Of course I do." Rose glanced at the clock. "I have to go, I'm sorry. Promise me you'll finish your breakfast? You've put on some weight recently, and it looks good on you. I wouldn't want you to lose it again."

John looked upset. "You're leaving?"

"I'm sorry, I can't stay today. I'll see you later though, promise."

"Promise?"

"Of course." She glanced at his breakfast. "You'll finish that, yeah?"

He sighed. "Yes. I'll finish."

"Good." Rose cast him a final apologetic glance before hurrying out. It felt wrong to rush out on him after everything that happened on Friday, but she couldn't bear the thought of not seeing poor Amy.

* * *

Rose hated the fifth floor, which had padded rooms and beds with restraints and a lot of medical equipment that made horrible, ominous beeping, hissing, and whooshing sounds, but over the next few days she ventured up there every chance she got. Amy's condition didn't improve, and at the end of each visit Rose felt more hopeless and distressed. She hated to see Amy like that, staring blankly at the ceiling and perfectly still no matter what happened around her. It looked a part of her had died, leaving the rest of her in this terrible limbo, and it broke Rose's heart.

On Wednesday, Sarah Jane told her that the doctors decided the drugs weren't working, and were weaning her off of them in preparation for electro-convulsive therapy. Rose knew it was supposed to help, and methods nowadays were meant to be gentle and humane, but she hated the idea of ECT. It was difficult to imagine how intentionally shocking someone's brain could be anything less than cruel.

Rose stayed late that night, long after her shift was over, and sat by Amy's bed, feeling helpless. Yesterday, she'd grasped Amy's cold hand and raised it a little off the bed, as if pleading with her. When she let go, she expected it to drop limply back on the sheets, but Amy's arm didn't move, just stayed like that, elbow slightly bent and hand a few inches away from the bed, fingers slightly curved from Rose's grip. It scared Rose and she quickly moved Amy's arm back to the bed and pushed her fingers so they were flat again. There was a term for it, according to Sarah Jane. _Waxy flexibility_.

Rose shuddered. It was freaky, if she was honest. She didn't like thinking that of Amy, but this frightened her. "Please wake up, Amy. This isn't you, I know it's not," she said.

Amy continued her blank contemplation of the ceiling.

 _Like talking to a corpse,_ Rose thought suddenly. She shook her head and pressed her hands to her eyes. _Stop it. Don't think like that, Amy will be fine. She'll come out of it. Calm down._ She took a deep breath. She should probably go. She wasn't doing any good just sitting here.

"I'm going now, Amy. I'll come see you again tomorrow, I promise," she said as she stood up. It felt wrong to leave her without saying goodbye. She walked down the stairs as if in a daze, then stopped when she realized she wasn't on the ground floor.

"Christ," she muttered under her breath. She'd accidentally walked halfway to John's door. What was wrong with her? He was just another patient, not someone she could just talk to when she was upset. He had his own problems. No need to burden him with hers, too.

She glanced up and down the empty hallway around her, and suddenly wave of guilt crashed over her. Standing in this hallway reminded her of John's crestfallen expression every time she left early after delivering his meal. This is what he got after he broke out of here and rushed to her flat just to make sure she was okay. _He's not just another patient_ , she admitted to herself. _He deserves better than this_. She wondered if it was crazy of her to knock on his door and apologize right now. Would he consider that an intrusion? Would that be inappropriate?

She never came to a firm conclusion in her mind, but found herself staring at his room number with her hand raised to knock. _Oh, sod it._ She knocked, belatedly hoping she didn't disturb his valuable sleep.

"Who is it?"

She raised her head at the faint voice from inside. "R-Rose." She reached for the handle but the door abruptly swung open before she could do anything and she was face-to-face with John.

"Rose," he murmured. "Are you okay? What are you doing here this late?"

 _He still wants to know if_ I'm _okay?_ He looked positively exhausted and as unkempt as she'd ever seen him– his clothes were wrinkled and his hair was greasy and sticking up in all directions, but he still wanted to know how _she_ was doing. "I– I'm fine, I just– How are _you_ doing?" she said ungracefully.

He stared at her, then said quietly, "I'm fine. Would you like to come in?"

She nodded and he ushered her into the small room, closing the door behind her like he was inviting her into his home.

"What are you doing here?" he said again.

"I– I was looking after Amy. She– she's catatonic. And she hasn't woken up. I keep waiting for her to wake up." Rose felt tears spill onto her cheeks but she couldn't stop them. John guided her to his bed and she sat down next to him. "I keep thinking if I sit with her long enough, if I talk to her enough, she'll wake up, or come out of it, or something. But she just stays like that, staring at nothing." She shivered. "She looks dead, John, and I feel so helpless and–" She cut herself off and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to do that. Dump all this on you. It's not fair."

"It's okay," John murmured. She felt his arm around her shoulders, and she felt herself relax under his touch. His fingers traced strange, circular patterns on her sleeve and she focused on their rhythm to take a deep breath.

"No, it's not, and I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm just– I love working here, because I get to help people but I can't help her, it's just not possible and I hate it. I hate feeling so hopeless."

"I understand."

"Crap. God, I'm so sorry I didn't mean– of course you do. Oh my God, I should go, I'm so sorry–" She was babbling but she was too tired and emotional wrung-out to stop herself.

"Please don't." He suddenly gripped her shoulder to keep her from standing. "I'm glad you're here. I've missed you."

She leaned slightly into him. "Thank you for listening."

"I'm happy to."

She put an arm around his waist in an awkward half-hug. "It feels good to talk to someone about it."

He suddenly tensed and Rose realized what she'd said.

"Not that I'm– I don't have any agenda, I promise. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to…" She looked up at him and trailed off.

He was staring at the hawthorn tree again, its branches reflecting the moonlight and giving the appearance of an ethereal cloud in the middle of the courtyard. He'd been looking better, younger recently, but in that moment his eyes looked so old she would swear he was a thousand. She knew he was in pain, he'd been in pain since she'd known him, but she'd never seen it this way, raw and written all over his face.

She watched him in silence for a long while, felt his ribcage expand as he took a long, deep breath, as if bracing himself.

"My university theater department performed _The House of Blue Leaves_ while I was there."

They were still holding each other, and Rose didn't let go. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she said again softly.

"No, I want to." He gripped her shoulder. "You're right. I should tell someone about it. And I want to tell you."

Rose's heart pounded in her chest. She nearly stuttered something about how honored she felt he was choosing to open up to her, but stopped herself. _Just listen,_ she thought. _You owe him that much._

"A friend recommended it to me," John said softly. "She said she thought I would enjoy it, but I think she was also trying to tell me something– but I never understood…" He trailed off and was silent.

Rose gently prompted him, "What was her name?"

"Adelaide," he whispered. "Her name was Adelaide Brooke."


	11. A Hand to Hold

"She was my advisor when I was getting my degree in astrophysics. I was lonely. All my friends had moved on or left and I was feeling… lost. And hopeless. More than I had before. She became my friend and… we were very close." He said the last part very quietly, almost whispering.

Rose realized she'd been holding her breath, and tried to let it out as softly as possible. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she tried to get the rush of adrenaline under control. He was talking. Finally. To _her_ , of all people. The situation felt so delicate she was afraid that the smallest disturbance would ruin it.

"But she had… problems of her own," John continued, so quiet Rose had to lean forward slightly to hear him. "She confided in me. She'd struggled with depression all her life, attended hundreds of hours of counseling for it. You wouldn't expect it, looking at the rest of her life. She had a successful career, a husband, and a daughter. But she was never… happy, it seemed. There was always a shadow over her face." He trailed off.

He was silent for such a long time, Rose wasn't sure he was going to continue. But she'd heard too much not to hear the rest. "What happened?" She tried to make her tone as gentle, as comforting as possible.

"In my third year, she tried to kill herself."

Rose tried to keep from audibly gasping. "Tried?"

"I found her. I wanted to talk to her about something, and when she didn't answer her phone, I thought I'd stop by her place, since I was in the area, and I heard her car running in the garage."

"Oh, God."

"I broke in and dragged her out of the car and took her to the hospital. She lived. Her family thanked me, she went back into intensive counseling and on medication, and we thought she would be fine. I thought I had saved her."

His eyes were wet and Rose felt her heart go out to him. He looked to be in so much pain she didn't want to imagine what happened next.

"She told me she hated the medications. She took them for her husband and her daughter, she wanted to be 'normal' for them. But she didn't like the way they made her feel. They made her feel like someone else. She began to feel like her depression was something that was just a part of her, something inextricable from _herself_ , that she couldn't truly be who she was without it." He took a deep, shaky breath as tears spilled over his cheeks. "After a year, I guess she couldn't do it anymore. She stopped taking them, but I think she got a lot worse. She talked about holding her family back, feeling trapped in a life that shouldn't be hers. I tried to help her, I _swear_ , I did but–" He stopped, shoulders trembling.

Rose's arm was still around him but she squeezed him tighter, not sure what to say but wanting him to know that she was there. He was sobbing, silently, brokenly. She rubbed his back, his arms, his shoulders. "Shh," she whispered. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay."

"The last time she spoke to me, it was a voicemail. She called me one night while I was asleep and told me some people couldn't be saved, _shouldn't_ be saved. She was the way she was and there was nothing I could do. She said I should've let her die in her car the year before. It wasn't my place to save her."

"Oh, John."

"The next day she was found dead in her office at the university. She'd stayed late, called me and her family, and shot herself. I saw–" He took another deep breath. "I saw the room after they took away the body. She did it so blood didn't get on on any of her books, but it was all over the windows, running down in horrible, red rivers with bits of her brain–"

He had to stop again and Rose held him tightly, as if she could anchor him to her, remind him she wasn't alone. She kept whispering softly in his ear, "Shh, shh, it's okay. It's okay."

"It's not okay, it's not," John said when he could speak. " _I_ haven't been okay since then. I never went to that office again, couldn't even go to that hall again. I have dreams– I have dreams about that room, and the blood on the window. Sometimes I can see her doing it, I'm standing right there and I see it happen in slow motion. Sometimes– sometimes I'm standing outside the window, and I can only see the flash of the gun and I'm screaming inside but can't force it out. Every time she dies, she dies and I can't stop her, no matter how hard I try. I can't save her. I can never save her."

He began sobbing again, and Rose let him. She held him and rubbed his shoulders and listened to him cry for a long time, until she felt his breathing quiet and his muscles relax. "That's awful, John, just awful. I can't imagine how that feels, but– I'm glad you told me. I am. No one should have to bear that kind of weight alone."

He didn't say anything for the rest of the night, but he gripped her tightly as she held him.

"You're not alone," she whispered, over and over. "I'm right here, you're not alone."

* * *

John wasn't sure how long Rose sat with him after he'd told her the Story of Adelaide Brooke, just holding him and whispering soothing phrases into his ear. He wanted it to last forever, dreaded feeling cold emptiness beside him when she finally left.

Eventually, she moved her lips away from his ear and said, "You know what you have to do, don't you?"

He didn't ask what she meant, or give her an answer. He knew.

He told Martha the whole story the next day, more calmly and in fewer words than he'd told Rose, but the whole story.

She listened with a controlled but completely sincere expression, never interrupting, just nodding and taking the occasional note. "Thank you for telling me," she said when he'd finished.

He nodded stiffly, not sure what was coming next.

"John," she said softly, almost tenderly. "How do you feel?"

That was it. That did it for him, and he didn't know why. He began crying, for the second time in twenty-four hours (is this what healing is supposed to feel like?), and couldn't say anything for the next few minutes.

Martha waited patiently, passing him tissues.

"Wretched," he finally said. "Depressed." Then words began pouring out of him and he couldn't stop them. "Relieved. Elated. Hopeful. Overwhelmed. Lonely. Confused. Empty. Full. Afraid."

Martha nodded solemnly. "I understand."

Great, because he didn't.

"At least you're feeling something. It's _good_ that you're feeling all these things, and normal for you to be confused. But we're all here to help you. You're not alone."

John nodded tearfully and took some deep breaths. He repeated to himself, _Not alone. Not alone. Not alone._ It became a mantra he used when he began to feel overwhelmed with all the things he now had to feel and deal with. Wherever he was, in a session with Clara, in his room, sitting in the courtyard, he would close his eyes and think, _Not alone. Not alone._ He always heard it in Rose's voice, the soft whisper she'd used the night he told her everything, and eventually she took over his thoughts and the words blurred, _Not alone. Not alone. Rose. Rose. Rose. Rose._

She was around all the time now, and he sometimes wondered who was responsible, whether Martha and Clara were making sure she was there for him, or whether she was there because she wanted to be. He desperately hoped it was the latter. He couldn't bear to be just another patient to her.

* * *

She introduced him to Amy one day in the courtyard, a tall, red-haired young woman with a kind face but who could only seem to focus her eyes somewhere to the right of his head and on something very far away.

"Are you the Doctor?" she said, presumably to him.

Rose smiled apologetically, but John didn't mind. "I'm _a_ doctor, Amy, but I don't believe I'm _the_ Doctor."

"No." Amy shook her head "You're not him. He sounds different than you."

"Does he talk to you, then? The Doctor?"

"Oh, yes," Amy said. "I can hear him in my head." She tapped her temple. "Right here." She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "They think I'm _crazy_." She giggled. "But I know he's real."

"Crazy's not so bad," John said.

"Are you crazy, too?"

"A bit, yeah." He smiled sadly at Rose. "They tell me I'm depressed," he said to Amy, as lightly as he could.

Amy frowned. "I'm sorry. Why are you depressed?"

John shrugged and thought about it for a minute. "A lot of bad things happened to me," he said. "And I had a lot of bad thoughts. So many it was hard to think good thoughts."

Amy cocked her head. "You know, the Doctor once told me something."

"Oh yeah? What did he say?"

"He told me once, that in your life there are a lot of good things and a lot of bad things. The good things don't make the bad things go away, but the bad things don't make the good things less good. Are there good things in your life, John?"

John was silent for a long time. Amy kept talking in that strange, disjointed way of hers, but he couldn't listen. _Are there good things in your life, John?_

 _Yes,_ he thought that night, staring at the ceiling from his bed. There were so many good things in his life, when he bothered to count them. The hawthorn tree had lost its flowers, but he still thought it was beautiful. Amy had woken up and could still recover. Donna was engaged now, to a lovely, loyal man named Shaun. Martha and Clara were here, and cared for him. His parents were alive, and loved him, even though they were far away. Donna loved him. Rose… Rose was here. And she was happy.

He was suddenly smiling at the ceiling. _I'm happy_ , he thought, to his own surprise. _All those things make me happy_.

He told Clara about this breakthrough the next day and she had him make a list, a longer, more detailed list, of all the things that made him happy. He did so, eagerly. The last thing on his list was something he'd almost forgotten about.

"Writing," he said. "I loved writing."

"Could your cousin bring you your computer?" Clara said.

* * *

Donna gladly brought him his computer within the week, and he sat down at it that evening to continue the book he'd started before everything went to hell.

Rose came in with his dinner that evening to him staring at a chapter heading and an empty document.

"Everything all right?" she said.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

She leaned over his shoulder, breath tickling his hair. "What're you writing there?"

"I… I don't quite know. I'm trying to pick up where I left off. But I can't think how." He turned to her, fear written all over his face. "What if I can't write anymore? What if I can't go back to the way I was?"

"Shh," Rose said. "Come on." She pulled him up from from his chair and sat him down on the bed next to her. He tried not to lose himself in the feel of her hands on his skin or the smell of her hair. "It's okay if you can't be like you were before," she said.

He glanced doubtfully at her.

"It _is_ ," she insisted. "Perhaps you're not the same, but I didn't know you then. I know you now." She smiled nervously. "And I like you." She nodded towards the computer. "And if I were you, I wouldn't try to just pick up right where you left off. Maybe you should just begin a new story." She smiled fully at him, and her tongue touched her teeth.

Before he knew what he was doing, he leaned over and kissed her. Her lips were softer than he could've imagined and tasted like strawberry lip gloss. She hesitated at first, but soon leaned into him, put her hand on his shoulder and held him to her. He was pretty sure he could stay like this forever. She was so warm, and it was the nighttime but he felt like he was standing in direct sunlight, just because she was next to him. She made him feel so happy, so _alive_.

He tried to keep her close when she began to pull away. "Rose–" he began, although he didn't quite know what he wanted to say.

She was still smiling at him, but she shook her head. "Not yet, John. Get better."

"Rose, please." _Please don't leave. Please don't break my heart._

"I didn't say no," she said. "I said not yet."

John nodded and let her pull away completely. _Not yet_ , he repeated to himself. _Not yet_.

* * *

The hawthorn tree had lost its leaves when John was released. He refused to move in with Donna. He wanted to be independent, he said. He wanted to be left alone to make a fresh start.

Clara was uneasy about this decision. "I don't want him to become isolated again," she said.

Martha nodded. "Neither do I."

They weren't looking at each other, their eyes were trained on the circular driveway visible from the third floor break room.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Clara said. She looked away from the window and turned to Martha, who was still staring at the driveway.

Martha didn't answer for a while, then a smile spread across her face.

Clara looked back out the window. John had come outside, in a blue suit that was no longer too loose and wild hair that no longer laid limp across his forehead. An old, deep blue car pulled up in front of him, but it wasn't Donna driving.

Martha smiled wider as Rose got out of the car and ran straight into John's arms. They embraced each other like they would never let each other go, and indeed, they held hands as long as possible, only releasing them when he had to go around to the passenger side.

She glanced over at Clara, watching the scene with wide eyes. "Yeah, I think he'll be okay," she said. "He's not traveling alone."

* * *

The End

 **Thank you to everyone who read/followed/favorited/reviewed, I hope you enjoyed it!**

 **A short list of songs that accompany this story is posted on my profile.**

 **If you liked this Doctor Who AU, check out my other one if you haven't already, The Relative Dimensions of Space.**


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